The Final Solution
by Messiah91
Summary: Sam falls afoul of a witch's curse that leads the Winchesters on an interesting journey. Will they discover a solution in time, or is one already staring them in the face?
1. Prologue

**The Final Solution**

Disclaimer: I don't own "Supernatural" or profit from it in any way; I merely plunder its intellectual property for my own amusement. I also don't own Michael Chabon's titular novella.

Author's Note: This story is intended to feed my own desires, and it will lead the reader to an interestingly dark place. Read with caution, but relish with joy.

"_Hell is empty, and all the devils are here_," thought Sam Winchester with a touch of irony he hadn't felt since his last days at school, when the whole College Illusion had begun to lose its luster.

It wasn't his current battle against a particularly bloodthirsty fiend, or the back-to-back witch hunts – first in Wisconsin and now here in Massachusetts – he was just now finishing that left him to wax so philosophical. No, it was just a run-of-the-mill observation; the kind of thing an old professor of his had once told the class to "hunt for until your hands are raw and your eyes blister at the light of morning!" However, his current battle was a little desolate and the two-for-one witch battles had left him drained (as they always did: witches were a crafty and toughened bunch), both of which led Sam to realize the fittingly flippant manner of his scholarly findings (his area of expertise being Demon Hunting, his capstone written in werewolf blood). If he had bothered to give voice to his thought, Dean would have laughed out loud.

Unfortunately, Dean wasn't much into the "expelling oxygen" business right now, seeing as how he was wrangling hand-to-hand with the wiry old lady they were currently trying to kill.

"Some help, Sammy?" Dean managed to toss out between clenched teeth, his fist punctuating his remark by leaving an interesting bruise on the woman's left cheek.

"Give me one second…done." Sam responded as his hand plunged into the right pocket of his jeans to extract a handful of grey-blue dust, which he proceeded to toss around the spell caster.

"You brought grandma's ashes to fight one of the state's most powerful sorceresses? And here I thought you went to college for nothing."

"Hold on a minute, Dean. Now watch."

Sam finally opened the leather-bound book he was holding by his side, and began reading. As the Latin phrases darted from his mouth into the darkening night, the dust lifted from its messy line into a circle, then a cyclone. The magically created storm enshrouded the old woman, who had but a moment to utter a cry of retort before she was silenced by the whir of an ancient spell.

"I take back the cremation joke – that was some serious mojo." Dean said, a smile chasing his words.

"I didn't go to college for nothing: they did teach me Latin." Sam retorted, already moving into position to ease his older brother against the closest tree trunk. "Did you think all of those thirty-three rounds you went with the Wicked Witch were necessary?"

"I had to teach that bitch what it meant to be taken down by the Winchester brothers. We aren't some salt & pepper hunters: we're lean, mean, fighting machines. She never stood a chance." Dean said proudly.

"All grotesque chest bruising to the contrary?" Sam said skeptically.

"Bruises fade little brother; glory only gets brighter in hindsight." Dean threw back.

"Kind've like a massive house fire that kills dozens?"

"I really hope you aren't comparing my latest triumph to a horrible freak of nature."

"If the shoe fits…"

"Hit your irritating sibling with it."

Sam lips, chapped as they were and torn where the witch had thrown a small flurry of rocks at his, turned up at the edges. Banter with his brother: if he ever died, God help him, this was one of the few things he'd miss.

"Hello, Sammy? Let's not space out here, ok. You could use a healthy dose of first aid and I may just pass out right here if we don't start moving." Dean said lightly, shaking his brother's forearm.

"What? Oh, yeah. Let's go home." Sam's ruminations faded from his mind, giving him a pleasant background glow, as he helped his brother stand and they both started hobbling towards the Impala. At the moment before he slid into the passenger seat (even injured, Dean's "baby" was still off-limits, driving wise, to his baby brother), Sam looked back at his conjured cyclone.

"If that doesn't keep you tied up for a while, then we have a bigger problem on our hands than we thought."

"Talking to yourself again, Sam? Maybe you need a little more than physical treatment."

"Shut up, jerk."

"Bitch."

That smile from earlier returned, another continuing reminder of the amenities to be found in his new lifestyle of cruising-and-slaying. He slid in onto the leather, scrunching his legs into the almost-confining floor space.

"Off we go." Dean announced as he floored the gas into the soft and silent night.

For an evening so seemingly serene, the gnawing noises created by the brothers' spell made the night, for Naz, a disaster. Not only was she currently locked inside a spell intoned from a dusty language even she would have trouble tricking her way out of, but she was bleeding. Gushing even.

"I don't envision this ending well for me." She gritted out. She had minutes maybe, possibly even moments, before the darkness lurking in the far-off tree branches pounced on her consciousness, then swallowed her whole. She'd needed a contingency plan. How was she to know that challenging the latest freak-hating fanatics to cruise into her town would spell her doom? The last three times it'd happened everything had been effortless - the men's brains had been pulled from their skulls with an easy spell; they'd never felt a thing (well...perhaps they'd felt a little something). This though, she'd never expected to fight and lose to these _babies_. In her years at work as a conjurer of the quick and the dead and the satanic, all those who wished to do her harm had been older and burned inside with a passion always threatening to set them aflame (something Naz aided with much joy). To encounter a pair like this, calm and collected and put together, even before they crossed a measurable threshold into adulthood, was beyond her reckoning…and that had been her fatal mistake.

But it would not be her last move.

The question boiled down to this: in what uniquely exquisite way could she torture the brothers who had done this atrocity to her? There lay at her fingertips a dozen or more methods of eternal, barely-there misery; incantations to create a lifetime of slowly-building mania. No, she wanted a rapid retribution. To that effect she could just send their car flying from the road. Too quick: she needed something fast-acting but cruelly designed for a pain that would claw its way into both boys (_Boys…who beat me! _The thought still left her sick) and leave them forever deformed from her plans. Where would her inspiration come from?

Wait. Passing through her head, a remembrance from the battle: _"…we're lean, mean, fighting machines.__"_ That was it; she would turn his declaration of youth into a haunting reminder of age and fragility for both of them. The swirls of darkness, potent in their nihilistic cravings, sprang easily to her mind and she spread her palms wide. A second before she mouthed the words that would seal the Winchester's fates, a realization: leaping across this void the younger one created around me will drain a portion of my energies. I fear I will not have enough to destroy them both.

Anger, resentment, and frustration. But wait: a smile.

"I cannot get them both – but just as killing a child will irrevocably damage its parents, so will I attack the amateur magician who has locked me into death, and in the process torment the pair as I torture the one." With this last pronouncement, Naz drew breath for the last time and muttered her spell. Then she died.

And as her eyes clouded over watching the night sky, her face drew tight in a caricature of joy: her magic this very moment glided across blades of grass and the wings of birds to the boy.

She would have her revenge.

Sam could count on one hand the number of times he'd been as happy as he was now to see the flashing neon lights of a roadside motel. Among these instances, the one he was currently involved in – injured driver, beleaguered mind – called out for rest and sleep as much as any. He would welcome his stale mattress with open arms tonight.

As the car roared (or rather, purred, as Dean was letting off the gas in preparation of exit even before they had turned into the lot) close to their room, Sam could hardly keep at least a small groan of content from passing through his lips.

"Eager for sleep, Sammy?" Dean joked, turning towards his brother as he opened the door and swung one foot out onto the pavement.

"I think I passed eager about ten miles ago. I'm hovering around 'desperate' right now."

"I hear you: I'm stripping down and sleeping in for the next twelve-to-twenty hours."

"I'm hoping closer to twenty."

"Crazy witch: kills more than five hunters and still has the nerve to take us on head-first. Good thing we took care of that; it'll leave more time for the important stuff."

"Like going into a coma?" Sam asked.

"You read my mind, little bro."

By this time the Winchesters had made their way into the room and deposited their weapons and supplies into a pile in the corner. Dean immediately slipped out of his shirt – a torn mess that, after being eyed-over for thirty seconds received the "You'll be safer in the incinerator," treatment – and jeans before pulling out the bandages and ointment from the side table.

"Interested in patching a guy up?" He said, turning to Sam.

"Patching you up is what I live for," Sam dryly returned.

"As long as it's done right, you can hate me for it all you like," Dean said, settling into his pillows, anticipating his coming sleep.

"Yeah, yeah – now pipe down or I might slip and do more harm than good."

"The day that happens, Sammy, is the day time starts flying backwards."

With this last witticism Dean set back into slumber, letting Sam finish his job – which he did roughly ten minutes later. Packing up the medical supplies, Sam decided to take a quick shower before joining his older brother in dream land. As he stepped into the bathroom and cranked the shower to full throttle (he'd been told by Dean that he'd inherited his like of hot showers from his dad, a fact he once thoroughly resented) an odd tingle touched his spine. Thinking it was just the change in the air temperature, he proceeded to shuck his pants, shirt, and a pair of white briefs before he stepped into the shower.

As his first foot hit the wet, hot tile the feeling expanded from his spine and moved to the base of his neck. This change gave the young hunter a moment's pause, and had the sensation then not ceased a second after it expanded fully to a warm glow in his head he almost surely would have said something to Dean the following day…or remembered the incident at all. As it was, Sam Winchester immersed himself fully in the cleaning fluid and let the day's activities melt away from him.

Little did he know that his stress wouldn't be the only thing to melt from him over the next few days.


	2. Chapter 1

_Sammy finds himself at the top of a very slippery path and the ground beneath his feet has begun to shift…_

Sam Winchester woke up wet for the first time in eighteen years.

The last time he'd wet the bed he had been six years old. Their father was still letting his eyes adjust to the secret darkness pervading the world and he'd been spending most of his days and nights gathering as much as he could on the supernatural. But Sam had still been a little boy and, as little boys tended to do, he'd had an accident early one Thursday night.

Their father had tucked them in around seven then headed to the local library until ten. He'd heard that there were a few interesting pieces of literature on the occult there and he'd been very interested in checking them out. Not twenty minutes after his beat-up old blue Ford had left the driveway Sammy drifted off to sleep, the sound of Dean's snores the scratchy lullaby to lead him off to restful oblivion.He didn't sleep for long. Around 11 o'clock (John, still nowhere to be found), Sam awoke to the dark house with a thousand volts of panic leaping through his body. In his bed in the corner of the room – Dean slept by the door, even in those days – he was witness to the dozens of dark shadows and noises that can creep into a bedroom when you're less than ten years old. Captive as he was, and with his panic button in overdrive, he huddled there under the blankets until he drifted back into sleep, nearly an hour later…

The following morning he awoke to his brother's morning routine: Dean always got up first, showered first, and then noisily dressed first (perhaps a clue to his younger brother that he too should exit dream world). This particular bright morning though, another element intruded on the daily activities: as Sam's eyes rose to face the morning sun a thought crossed his mind.

_"Dean must have come and rolled in my bed right after his shower – the idiot," _Sam's inner mind grumbled. Yet after a few moments, as he grew more aware, he reached a far more logical, and embarrassing, conclusion.

"Uhh…Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I think I had an…umm…accident."

"What, did you wreck dad's truck after we all went to bed? Man you really are the Boy Genius if you could sneak past me, shimmy down the lattice down to the driveway, hotwire the car and-"

"No. I mean, I think I wet the bed."

"Oh," was all Dean said as he turned from his dresser, where he'd been slipping on a shirt, back to his little brother's bed. A second later he was by Sam's side and helping him away from the scene of the crime.

"First thing first: let's get you cleaned and then we'll deal with the bed – I wouldn't worry though, this is only a rental."

Dean grabbed Sam by the armpits and swung him around in a wide circle. It was an old game they used to play, dated back to before Sammy could walk, and it had the intended effect: giggles burst from Sam's mouth and filled the room, crowding out most of his humiliation.

"Let's go hop in the shower, ok?" Dean asked his brother as he herded him towards the hall bathroom. In the next few minutes Dean turned on the water ("All the way, remember Dean?" Sam had admonished.), helped his brother out of the soiled clothes and then stepped back into their bedroom to finish the clean-up, leaving Sam to puzzle over the seemingly-isolated incident.

_"I'm only seven years old, I mean: isn't stuff like this bound to happen?" _Sam wondered, already revealing his curiously heightened sense of observation. _"It could have been all that soda I drank at dinner…stupid Dean, had to get in a contest with me over it. But I showed him – I won. I wonder if he let me win…Wait, no. It must have been when I woke up; saw all those stupid shadows. Maybe I should ask Dean to turn back on my night-light again. He'd probably not even make fun of me that much…"_ And so his shower continued on, with thoughts of his slip-up sliding down the drain with the hot water.

After he'd finished, dried off, and gone back to their room he found Dean by his now clean bed.

"How'd you…?" Sam didn't think even Dean could fix a whole bed in merely twenty minutes time.

"It was no biggie, Sammy. Just a little trick I picked up from the cleaning ladies at all those hotels we used to stay at."

"Ok."

"Now let's get you dressed and we'll head down to get some breakfast," said Dean as he began opening and closing dresser drawers, tossing this pair of shorts and that shirt at Sam, who then slipped them all on with ease.

As the pair trundled down the steps (to the accompanying beat of their father's heavy snores), Dean turned to Sam, a glint mixed with curiosity in his eyes.

"This won't happen again, will it kiddo? We can't have Dad thinking you've sprung a leak, can we?" Sam sensed the real question in the light-hearted teasing – even after these short seven years their banter had become a well-oiled machine – and responded as assuredly as he could.

"Nope, I won't be wettin' the bed any time soon."

When he'd first awoken to that cold, almost sweaty feeling eighteen years ago, he hadn't known at first what it was.

He knew within an instant this time.

What's more, he knew from his recollection of that night and the following morning that there would be no "happy go-lucky, big brother cleans-up everything" this time. He was a grown-man, so why had he soaked his bed like a baby?

With these thoughts of discontent and confusion bubbling over into his face, Sam swung his feet onto the motel floor and crept into the bathroom to inspect the damage to himself, before he'd then steal a glance back on his bed – see if a salvage attempt should be made.

_"I really wish Dean had taught me that trick he'd learned from the cleaning ladies." _Sam thought glumly, silently closing the door behind him as he turned towards the mirror.

He had really done a number on himself that was for sure.

He could tell where it had started, the rather large dark stain that spread from the crotch of his sleeping pants to about half-way down his upper-thighs being the prime indicator. But somewhere in the night he must have started tossing around, because it had spread from his crotch to almost his belly-button, staining the bottom of his shirt with a stain just a shade-lighter than the original.

"I wonder what the bed looks like," he whispered at no one.

Accordingly he stuck his head out of the bathroom door, but all he could see was the darkness in the room, the tangle of sheets. If he squinted, he might have convinced himself he saw something but nothing would be certain until he could go right up on it. And he wasn't going to do that until he'd showered.

He turned toward the shower, ringed with a faint black circle of mildew, and started up the jet of vapor and water. He stripped out of his clothes; "Even my skin smells like pee," he grumbled to the bathroom tiles.

The hot water hit his muscles with a pleasant beating sensation as he allowed himself fully behind the shower curtain – his pile of stained clothes the only indicator now of the night's accident. In the following five minutes he did a thorough scrub of his body, a lesson he learned from his father that he'd used a total of five times before today. Sam hadn't thought before that being able to rinse clean without waking a soul would be useful. Now he was just thankful he knew how.

He could feel the filth of his "leak" drop off into the drain and it eased his mind for the coming activity.

As he stood in the now quiet shower, water dripping from his hair – turned into long, soaking spikes by the wash – and feet onto the tile, he clouded over once more. The oddness of the incident through him for a loop – it sounded almost like some sick Cosmic Joke – but what really got him was how he was going to cover his tracks before Dean, the World's Lightest Sleeper, woke up. Because if Dean woke up and discovered his baby brother had actually lived up to the nickname…well, Sam had no idea what would happen, and he would try his hardest not to find out.

The bathroom door slid open with barely a squeak (a squeak that shot straight to Sam's heart, mind you), allowing hot steam and a nearly-dry Sam Winchester to exit into the bedrooms.

His first chore was grabbing up some clothes, but that was easily done. Slipping past his own soiled bed to his bag, then bending low to run through his clothes, Sam came up in about fifteen seconds with a clean pair of pants, shirt, and briefs. He pulled these, ran outside to toss his stained garments into the large trash can next to the motel, and then re-entered their room. He next turned towards his Big Problem.

He'd been right, at least, with what he thought in the bathroom. If he movements in the night had spread his accident to cover a healthy portion of his clothes, then double that was true for the bed. Thinking fast he grabbed up the bottom sheets and threw them in the corner by his bag, to be thrown away later. He would leave the outer blanket, flip the mattress, and everything would appear normal to his brother's eye….at least, he hoped so.

Leaving the sheets by his feet, he stripped off the top blanket and flipped the stained mattress with minimal effort (his hands careful to stray away from the places where the actual substance had seeped in). Just as he was laying the blanket back over the "fresh" bed, Dean started to wake up.

As his eyelids fluttered open, Sam turned back to the bed, straining for a look of relaxation and early-morning grogginess.

"Hey, Sammy. You gonna hop in the shower?"

"No, I left it open for you. I was thinking of taking a run."

"Like you need more exercise to burn off you 0.0001 body fat; if you go though, just remember to be back in a bit. You wanted us to go research that voodoo Satanist two states over, remember?" Dean reminded his brother, propping himself up against his own headboard as he turned his head up toward his brother.

"Oh. Yeah, but I'll be back before then. Just remember…"

"If you don't return in thirty minutes, you've been body-snatched. And to think I was the one who taught you that. You're really catching up with your older brother, aren't you?"

"Like there's any way I could catch up with Mr. Sleeps-Early-Rises-Late." Sam joked, his hand on the doorknob, anxious to leave the room with the evidence of his crime.

"That's still never been as funny as you thought it was. Maybe that witch did something to your brain, some sort of curse to make you tell bad jokes…" Dean's parting quip went only half-heard though as Sam, with a small grin at his older brother, departed into the fresh morning air for his "run."

He'd forgotten about the hunt he was researching; maybe it would give him a break from the morning's mysteries. That would be nice, and once they were done Sam would have forgotten this whole thing ever happened…

The bookstore smelled more like crushed moldy leaves than he'd been expecting.

The place was just off the main road in town, but its structure had been built under a tall and ancient live oak that had been sprawling for close to one hundred years. The bookstore had only been around for twelve of those, but its persistence under the tree's shadow gave it an air of ornery mustiness. Stepping inside was like shaking the hand of a war veteran: there lingered a shaky strength to the place, but mostly all one saw now was how vey _old _everything seemed. Books were stacked with reckless abandon and the lone worker was stuck firmly behind a magazine, the only sign of life was his tapping feet to music only he could hear.

"This is where we had to come to research?" Dean sad exasperated – he was use to tame public libraries with the occasional dark secret smuggled in the back. Not this place, something dug up dead and left to dry in the shade.

"It's only horrible if you can't get past the smells…and the weird vibes…and, ok, it's horrible – but it has what we need." Sam yelled back to Dean as he waded into the numerous crevices of knowledge and scholarly discourse. Four hours later that's still where he was, looking very neo-noir with a cup of steaming coffee (Dean had bailed early into the trip to make a Starbucks-run, the rewards of which Sam gladly reaped) in his left hand and a pile of books stacked on his knee. Amidst the towers of information, he plowed through the pages looking for any and all references to the unique breed of satanic magic practiced by their next target. It was tedious work, but he was making progress: he already had a list of half a dozen books to look up with more specialized references. The warm satisfaction that spread through him as he realized the ease with which they were pulling together the pieces made the day he'd just wasted in the store all the more easy to forgive.

But wait.

That spreading warmth wasn't a poetic device to describe his mood…it was _actual _spreading warmth – urine to be exact. Sam Winchester, fully grown and fully trained demon hunter that he was, was pissing his pants in full daylight. And he couldn't even stop himself.

Suddenly he was two different people: he was a twenty-four year old, sitting in a junky bookstore researching his next gig; and he was also that six year-old little boy, terrified as a phenomenon he couldn't control took hold of his life. Trapped now as he was between the two, he could only sit as his stream grew slower and then stopped, leaving only a massive dark splotch on the jeans.

It wasn't exactly thought, per say, that compelled Sam to put up the books and begin to make his way to the exit; more likely it was a compulsory instinct of self-preservation – Dean was lurking about after all, and now there would be no way to hide the evidence.

"I was thinking of pulling out for lunch. Do you want anything, Sam?" All was lost.

"No..I, uh, I think I'll head back to the house. I'm really feeling an urge for that shower right about now." Sam hoped his voice shook more with affected tiredness than his actual fear right now. He also hoped the shadows cast by the crazily-stacked wares would protect his older brother from catching on. However Dean hadn't moved from his place almost directly in front of Sam.

"Sam, did you spill coffee on your pants?"

"What? Oh, yeah. I guess I did. All the more reason for that shower," he attempted to bark out a coarse laugh to distract Dean, but his brother's eyes had now fully gravitated down to Sam's jeans and were stuck there.

"Doesn't look much like a coffee stain…and that smell–"

"You know how these old places are–"

"I'd swear it was pee." The game was over, this was it. Sam tried to hang his head up, to defy the truth that was now slapping him in the face, but he couldn't. A second later, Dean caught on.

The look that crossed his face wasn't the disgust Sam had expected, but there was surprise mingled within it.

"Did you, umm, do it on purpose? Could you not find a bathroom?" His voice is a silky whisper now, the kind of tone he used to use on a hot girl in a crowded bar.

"No. I don't, I don't know what _happened_. I was just researching and then suddenly I–"

"You sprang a leak," Dean jokes, with a sensitivity his little brother hadn't thought possible.

In response there is only confusion on Sam's end. He doesn't know what to do. Should he leave? What's the point, Dean already knows: a stealthy get-a-way solves nothing. But he is still standing in a public place, drenched in his own pee.

"I have a solution." Sam let's Dean take him gently by the arm and guide him past the clerk and out of the now deserted store, coffee and reference lists forgotten. The entire time they made their way from among the books, the worker never even looked up from his magazine; his music never ceased.

A blessed reprieve.

In the car, everything is a surprise. Sam can't think of what Dean's "solution" will be, but he's glad to be lead to do something; for a second back there he'd been afraid he would just stand among those dusty pages until he collapsed from hunger.

Sliding onto the leather, he's distinctly aware of the wet noises made as he shifts into place, each sound a reminder of his current position. For what it's worth though, his brother's composure is flawless. As he starts up the Impala and pulls onto the main road – taking the direction that will lead them to the highway – his outward mask never cracks to show Sam what he could really be thinking.

"It was the witch," Dean said.

"What?" Sam is still half-way in his daze – voices come from a mile away.

"The witch, Sammy, it's some sort of curse she cast on you after we trapped her. It has to be."

"But that cyclone was supposed to be impenetrable…"

"Which is the trouble with witches, isn't it? They always find a way to screw you in the end."

"Why this, though? Why mess with my body, make me feel like a…a…"

"A baby? I don't know: probably to mock us for being young and not dead like she is."

"Well I find it a little more affecting than mockery."

"Hey, me too kiddo. Imagine how I felt finding you soaked in your own piss–"

"Something I couldn't fix–"

"Which scared me all the more. Doesn't matter – now that we know who did it, we can probably fix it right? Stop this thing before it grows from this one incident." Dean's resolve presses down upon Sam's cover-up this morning.

"Actually Dean, this happened this morning…well, really last night: I wet the bed."

"Shit."

Expletive now uttered, a cloud seems to settle over the car's driver, leaving Sam to muddle through his confusion. Ten minutes later they turn onto the highway and Dean turns to Sam.

"I've got another solution."

"You've just remembered that Dad left us an anti-witch spell in the journal?" Sam's faint joke leaves behind no laughter.

"No, it's just – we can't have you at this bitch's mercy. And until we find out a cure for the curse or spell-thing, we'll need to have insurance you won't get leaky any time of the day."

"Something I'd be equally thrilled for."

"What I'm talking about is adult diapers, Sammy." His heart stops. This is crazy. So crazy he can't even muster a protest.

"Now don't freak out. I don't mean that's the next stop. I'm just saying let's by 'em and if you have another accident, then we'll know to pull them out. That way until we stop this crap, the witch's hocus-pocus is somewhat thwarted and you stay dry." _Dry_. Never had he thought he'd hear that word in context with his bladder control.

But what his older brother said made sense, which was what was scary. How could Sam really wear diapers – wouldn't that only confirm his baby-status? Still, Dean, Master of Practicality, had come up with a solid contingency plan. He'd go along, albeit with knees knocking and hands shaking the whole way.

"We buy them, but we don't use them until – if, **not** when – I have some more…trouble," Sam said, barely above a whisper.

Dean turned from where he was navigating into the supermarket parking lot right off the highway and nodded. He could understand that.

"But right after we leave here, we go back to the bookstore and then to the library; we'll need to work overtime to fix this before I get even more messed up."

"Whatever you want, little bro."

The two of them exited the care and he realized he'd be walking right into a brightly-lit store, stain on display for all. He was tempted to turn back, but Dean's protective arm around his shoulder compelled him forward.

Together they entered a place they hadn't intended to go, to buy something they never wanted to use, for a person with a problem neither of them knew how to fix.


	3. Chapter 2

_"Sammy takes his first tottering steps in the changed landscape…"_

**I**

He supposed the place wasn't as bad as it could have been. And the entire humiliating process went as smoothly as one imagined it could, for a twentysomething male to be buying adult diapers – the protections of which he so obviously needed (the stain covering the majority of his jeans being so clearly not coffee and all).

As Sam and Dean first passed into the front of the store, the air-conditioner hitting them like a ton of frozen bricks, they took a moment to get their bearings. Dean began to scope out the aisle most likely to sell their desired product, and Sam began to think up the method most likely to conceal his embarrassment.

"It'll be fine, Sam. I'm sure they get people in here all the time that need these things."

"Easy for you to say, you just have to buy them."

"Hey, if you want me to claim I need 'em, I will."

"And you think the obvious signs of my pants-wetting won't tip them off?"

"Never in a million years," Dean replied, with a tiny replica of his usual wolfish grin. With this brief exchange out of the way, they set off.

In just a few minutes they found what they were looking for. The diapers were sold down a row also filled with toothpaste and deodorant. Next to them, there was a woman of maybe thirty-five, and a teenage boy also shopping down the aisle. Sam considered for a moment staking-out the place until the coast was clear, but he knew he'd have to wait forever to get that chance. _"Better now than during a mid-weekend rush," _he thought, almost stepping towards his goal with something close to courage. Then he remembered Dean was going to do all the heavy lifting – get the product, pay for the product, etc. – and had to work to restrain his smile of relief.

About half-way down, there they sat. They were wrapped in inconspicuous grey packaging (for a horrible moment back in the Impala Sam had envisioned the adult diapers being covered in bright colors, practically emblazoned with the **"You're A Baby Boy!" **slogan) and they provided a range of sizes.

"What'll you think you are: medium or large?" Dean whispered to Sam as he approached the wall.

"Probably a medium."

"It says medium is about a thirty-two waist, that sound right?" Dean asked, as he peered up at the boxes.

"Yeah," Sam answered, embarrassment creeping into his voice as this exchange grew in length – each passing moment emphasized the pairs of eyes he just knew were staring at him in shock and dismay.

Dean nodded his assent and then reached up to grab a few packages (a brand known as "ProtectionPlus", solemnly decorated in navy blues and blacks). Sam realized a little unhappily that his brother had grabbed the version labeled "Maximum Absorbency," without consulting Sam - as if he instinctively knew just how much piss Sam could let out in the wee small hours of the night. As Dean gathered the three boxes into his arms he turned and headed toward the cash register, Sam meekly in tow – already feeling a small part of the ordeal lift from him.

The cashier with the least crowded line, and thus most likely to get through their purchase the fastest, was also the least likely candidate. He was a teenager, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, and even Sammy in his addled state could recognize he had the air of a jock; he was precisely the type of person that would pounce on the opportunity presented to him. He was only happy, but with happiness shot through with guilt, that Dean would stand up in front of the firing squad instead of him.

"Hi," his brother greeted warmly to the man as he set the diapers onto the conveyor belt.

"Hello, did you folks find everything ok?" His training questions came out in a slightly bored tone, indicative of nothing…yet. _"Just wait till he sees what he's scanning, then the fireworks start," _was Sam's pessimistic inner response.

"Yeah, I went straight to it. Good thing too, something tells me I really could've used this stuff," Dean interjects again. If he's trying to pull the cashier into a conversation in hopes of a distraction, it doesn't seem to be working. As the man slides the first of the ProtectionPlus products across the laser, his eyes widen ever so much; he lifts his head to the brothers with a question already forming on his lips.

"You guys use these?" Sam was really, really, tempted to say no, but Dean beat him to the punch.

"Afraid so. Seems us boys here just can't keep ourselves all together, if you know what I mean." Surprisingly, the guy did.

"You don't have to tell me, man: up to when I was a junior in school I'd just about soak myself twice each day – once in bed and occasionally during school when I lost my concentration. It was awful, especially football practice after school, plus I had to bring extra changes of clothes in my backpack. But then my dad got these for me and, yeah, it weird and all but they saved my life. I'll tell you something though," the guy said, as he lifted his shirt, revealing a perfectly-toned athletic body and about two inches of white Fruit of the Loom Briefs, "these things can really rub you right about here," he continued, pointing to the spots where his underwear poked about his waistband. "If I was you, I'd definitely stock up on some baby powder."

"Yeah man, thanks," was all Sam could quite get out, so stunned was he at the cashier's little speech and, really, just the surreal circumstances he found himself in.

"The name's Jack, by the way. It's good to see other guys have my problem," said Jack as he put their new purchase in a bag (now complete with two bottles of baby powder, which Dean had run back to pick up).

"I have to admit, I am a little surprised though, seeing who you are…" Dean added, skepticism and geniality mixing in his voice.

"I know what you mean – jock like me wearing diapers. But I got through it, and they were a big help. I'm sure they'll do just the same for you."

"I sure hope so," was the simultaneous response from both Winchesters. All three men laughed lightly; the brothers nodded their thanks once again to Jack then turned to the exit.

"I don't know whether to laugh at the coincidence or run right back in and ask the guy for more advice," said Dean as he got into the driver's seat.

"Me too, it's all so weird. But I guess that 's what you get when you're under a witch's curse and suffering through the effects of a very strange physical regression."

"Now we have these though, as back up."

"Let's pray we don't have to use 'em."

"Amen, Sam, amen."

**II**

About thirty minutes into the trip, Sam considered shifting position, his legs having started to feel just the slightest twinge of numbness creeping from the back of his calves. To re-adjust himself he had to lever his arms under his lower-back, which took a tad more energy than his sleepy mind would quite allow. He was still reeling from the shock of the day after all, and even the threat of sleeping feet couldn't quite motivate him to move. Then it started.

It was just a small spurt at first, which was one of the unsettling things about it. He was sitting there, legs in their customary sprawl below him, with his head lolled back on the headrest, just trying to slip into some state of relaxation before they kick-started the research again tonight when, with not a hint of provocation, he felt his bladder let go a tiny bit into his pants.

He could almost picture it as it happened: the ounce or so of urine dribbling down his leg, creating a small yellow circle on his clean pair of starch-white Jockey briefs. He wasn't sure what to do at first. He thought to tell Dean but realized that to do such a thing would be damning himself to the diapers which, even though he'd witnessed the truth that Everybody Does It at the supermarket, he still dreaded having to wear. _"I'll just wait it out," _Sam thought, _"run inside when we first get back and change. No harm, no foul."_ With this firm resolution, he settled back once more, trying to approximate his earlier relaxing pose.

Then it hit again. The second time was hardly more than a dribble too, but it slipped from him with the same suddenness. Again the image of it sliding down his legs as it soaked into his underwear popped into his head. How much longer could he hide this from Dean if it kept up? His next obstacle occurred up when they stopped in at another public library to stock up for their cram session later on in the day.

"Can you go in this time Dean? I feel a little tired."

"Sure, yeah. Just get these books on the list right?"

"Yep." The reason his big brother had been so willing to sub-in for him, when usually he groaned for hours if the subject was even broached, was clear to both of them: he was trying to make the ease into this new – if hopefully temporary – routine all the easier. Sam had to admit that right this moment, it was working. Letting loose a sigh pregnant with a day's-long suffering, he didn't even try to settle back to relax now. He just tried his hardest to keep any more "little messes" from occurring. Sadly for him, it worked not even in the least.

Halfway through Dean's book run, a trip that took no more than five minutes, Sam was stuck deep in his "no-pee no-pee no-pee" meditation when precisely that happened. It wasn't a dribble or a spurt this time either, but it wasn't quite a flood. Still, in the thirty or so seconds it took for his bladder to completely empty, his pants were covered from hip to hip, and with even the smallest intake of breath, the smell of piss assaulted him. Hard.

He had a bigger problem though; because during his little bathroom break, Sam had experienced a flicker of an emotion he never wanted to even touch on again: as the warm fluid spread from his scrotum to the back of his butt to his lower-back, he'd felt pleasant…almost happy. It was sickening. _"This has to stop," _thought the hunter, _"maybe Dean is right – maybe these diapers will keep me from being so on edge. They'll certainly keep stuff like this from happening; Dean's going to hate me for what I did to the Impala. Heck, I hate me – especially after how I felt when I was letting go…no, I won't think of that. I can't." _The driver-side door opened.

"They didn't have the last one on your list, but I got all the others and–" Dean's re-cap of his trip was cut short as he settled fully into his seat and got a full whiff and view of his brother's situation. To his startled silence Sam could only hang his head.

"I tried Dean, really; it's been happening since about half-way from the store: just little spurts here and there but I didn't want to tell you. I couldn't have you look at me like this; I couldn't face the reality of those grey packages in the trunk once we got home. I…" By the end of his explanation, his voice had started to crack and strain; the frustration and humiliation of the day becoming manifest in another loathed Winchester fluid: tears. His big brother reached an arm around his neck and began a soothing kneading motion, an attempt to relieve some of the pressure that had built up in the car.

"It's ok Sammy, I can fix the car. You're the one I'm worried about. I think this is definitely a sign that what we just did was the right thing, sad as I am to say that."

"I know, I guess I've known since we stepped into the supermarket; I just don't want to acknowledge it. This shouldn't be _happening _to me. How can it be?"

"I don't know, but we'll figure it out – that's what the books are for, remember? Right now let's get you home and cleaned up, and then we'll dig in and find a way to end all this."

"Ok," Sam said, a sniffle echoing in his voice, even though Dean's hand on his neck had provided some measure of comfort.

"Do you have the keys?" Dean asked, meaning the motel room.

"I…uh, I did have them. I can't, I can't remember where I put them," answered Sam, his voice broken near the end with panic since he had sworn he'd put the keys a certain place, but now the memory of the location was just…gone.

"Wait, it's fine: I have a spare. Everything's fine, or it will be. Let's go home," Dean said as he strove to calm his sibling.

"Yeah," was his younger brother's only response as he burrowed himself down in the passenger seat.

**III**

Stepping back into the room, Sam thought crazily for an instant that everything had been changed into a nursery. Gazing about, he saw a massive Sam-sized crib where his bed had been, a changing table stacked with diapers and baby bottles next to that, and a primary-colored dresser in the corner – presumably filled with onesies and other baby clothes. A moment later the illusion broke, and gazing around the room all that was to be glimpsed were the beds and desk of their latest crash pad. That was scary.

He was tempted to stand in the entryway until Dean made him do something – that would certainly prolong the inevitable, wouldn't it? – but a more ingrained technique pushed him towards the shower.

"I'm heading in right now, just…try and have everything set up when I get out," Sam instructed his brother as he passed into the bathroom.

"Can do," was Dean's reply as he began sorting through the packaging, trying to determine some order or process for what he was about to help happen. The second before the bathroom door had closed, Sam was stopped by a question from Dean.

"Come here a second, would you? I think you'll want to hear what this says to do."

"You mean it doesn't say 'wear for incontinence protection?' I'm shocked."

"No, you idiot, it says they advise the 'use of another person until wearer becomes comfortable with diapering procedure.'" The little bit of bantering they'd managed to squeeze out had just been killed by this latest turn. Sam knew immediately that his day had just gotten a whole lot worse. _"Dean's going to have to do this to me? Aw, crap." _

"But hey, if you want to go against these packaging people, I'm all for it. I'd totally understand if you're not comfortable–"

"No, not this time. I think what they're saying is sound – I'd probably end up with the thing on my head if left alone with it – it's just difficult to swallow."

"You can say that again…"

"Well, the quicker I shower, the quicker we can get this whole thing over with. So, on that note…"

Some time later he exited the bathroom, towel over one shoulder and wearing only a pair of fresh underwear (damp this time, but from steam), to see Dean standing by the end of Sam's bed, a white square of plastic positioned next to him, and the baby powder in his right hand."Hop right up kiddo, let's get this party started."

**IV**

Being diapered by his older brother at an age when they should have been sharing drinks in a bar was a very odd experience. The first question was whether to get completely naked. He kind've had to, didn't he? That was the whole point? He felt weird though, stripping all the way down in full view of Dean; couldn't he just wear his briefs under the diaper, let them get wet too?

"Sammy, I saw you naked on a regular basis until you turned thirteen – when you got all modest – it's no big deal. Like you said: the quicker we do this…" His mind now made up for him, Sam let the so-called "tighty-whities" drop to his ankles, and then stepped out of them and closer to the bed. With one last shuddering breath – one last "This Can't Be Happening" prayer – he lowered himself onto the crinkling square, and let Dean get to work.

For a person who hadn't done this process in more than twenty years, Dean was surprisingly proficient. He spread the baby powder with efficiency across Sam's pelvis. He slipped his hands around his little brother's hips and lifted them with not an ounce of embarrassment. And he slipped the man-sized diaper under Sam's butt before Sam really had any time to protest. What Jack had said was right – the entire thing was very, truly, odd – but Sam also felt himself being tossed around on a sea of emotions he hadn't predicted. First among them was that from his angle, looking back up at his big brother as Dean pulled the thick cloth garment snug between his legs, Sam felt a tiny rush of contentment. _"You feel happy, don't you little boy? Having your big brother diaper you all up tight and snug, it's pretty nice, huh?" _A voice whispered from the back of his head.

Then, as Dean helped pull Sam to his feet he playfully smacked his diapered butt – evoking a crinkling "whump" sound. Sam let loose a small giggle in response.

"Enjoying yourself, are you kiddo?" The question caught them both equally by surprise: Dean, because he hadn't expected any part of this to go well (the instinct to smack on his baby brother's rear had come from nowhere, but it seemed somehowe right to Dean) ; Sam because he was now looking down the long barrel of an identity crisis. He'd tricked himself into believing the happiness that he had felt earlier in the car as he helplessly peed his pants had really just been an illusion – a morbid aspect of his mind playing with the actual warmth surrounding him. But reflecting back on the twin emotions that had just raced through him (and, if Sam was being honest with himself, were still kind of throbbing pleasantly in the back of his head), it looked more and more like the witch's curse was having unexpected side-effects. Things began to grow fuzzy in Sam's mind as he focused on this; his heart started racing but his mind only grew more muddled – phrases and knowledge flying from him with reckless abandon; all he could see was that nursery he'd visualized not too long ago, _"That's for me soon, I can feel it…"_

"You there, Sam?" Dean's interjection seemed to bring things back into focus. Turning his head this way and that (an attempt to clear what he feared were quite real mental cobwebs from his mind), Sam's eyes fell onto the stack of books they'd picked up when they were heading back to the motel.

"Yeah, just trying to sort through all this weirdness."

"Tell me about it: seeing my fully-grown brother standing before me in nothing but a thick diaper, that I put on him nonetheless, definitely throws the brain the ol' curveball."

"Like we said though, the only way to start fixing this is just to start."

"As you command. We can split the pile straight down the middle."

"Remember to look for anything mentioning our witch or regression spells."

"Sure. And, uh, one question before we start."

"Yeah?"

"You gonna put on some clothes, or just dig in as you are?" The question in his tone wasn't nearly as serious as Sam wanted it to be; there was far more bemusement, _"He thinks this is cute; I've been this way for, what, two days? If that nursery is coming down the pipeline, he might just be the one to set it up."_

"No, I doubt anything would fit around this bulk anyway," Sam answered. To make a point of this, he took his first shaky steps in his diapered state. It wasn't uncomfortable, he had to admit – another shock in a week filled with them. The cloth was thick and secure around him; and though his movement was impeded a bit (he had to walk with his feet spread-wide, and even still his movement was an unsteady toddle), the diaper wasn't as suffocating as he had once darkly thought.

Turning back to Dean, he caught a glimpse of the mirror. His appearance reflected there stole his breath. From roughly the navel up, he was just exactly the same person he'd been when the week started, before the witch hunt. But as you moved below that, the bulky plushiness of his diaper became quite apparent. And taking in the view as a whole, the two halves of Sam – strapping demon hunter on top; grown toddler on the bottom – meshed quite easily into a cohesive picture of a very well filled-out, very tall, baby boy. It was unsettling. Moving his eyes up to the face in the glass was even worse. Looking back at him wasn't the face of someone stuck in a situation they couldn't control (and was therefore suffering miserably), but rather a sort of pleased spaciness: the look of a two-year old playing on a cool afternoon.

Tearing himself from that image of the New Sam was harder than he'd expected. At the forefront of his mind were disgust, fatigue, sullen resentment, and resolution. But all the time lately, as he'd come to realize these last minutes, there was another force in the back of his head – toying with his emotions, tethering himself to this new persona. He knew he should be scared, but the longer he stared at the mirror, the more content he felt; things got that fuzzy feeling again – the crib appeared in his mind's eye.

"If you keep leaving me here like this Sam, I might have to call a neurologist."

"Oh, yeah. Sorry. Let's get to work." He turned towards his small pile of books on the desk and sat before them. Sam was quite conscious that he sat a few inches higher than usual, and every small movement made him sound like, well, a very-well diapered individual. But he had work to do, and the quicker he did it, the quicker he could banish all this mess back to memory. With a small pout (which, coupled with his new outfit, made Dean smile lopsidedly from his view on the bed), Sam opened the first book and began to untangle himself from one very "messy" situation.


	4. Chapter 3

_"Sammy's toddle becomes a slip-and-slide crawl as the curse takes a turn for the worst…"_

**I**

If, three days later, either one of the Winchester men had noticed they'd fallen into a completely different routine, neither mentioned it.

The changes were subtle. First, Dean had taken over most of the chores and "leg-work" the Winchesters set before themselves to dispel the curse in a timely manner. Namely, Dean had been the only one of the two to leave for food and supplies the last few days. What's more, and though they had both started with an equal share of books, Dean was doing the majority of the research now too. It had been hard at first for him – it was a struggle working his way through the tangle of cross-references and allusions that needed to be deciphered in order to understand the texts – but after that first afternoon when he'd first gotten all six books before him (Sam had fallen asleep on the bed not soon after he'd opened his second book, a pool of drool forming a halo on his shirt, his head tossed back against the headboard, tousling his mop of hair) he'd become more and more at ease with all the wizened pages. Sam still did work, but now he spent all day focusing on just one book, thought it was a volume he swore would crack the case wide open.

Also, Dean had been stocking up on a variety of supplies he'd found he'd needed to accommodate Sam. It would seem like a small thing in the scheme of things, wearing a diaper all day, but to Dean it made his brother seem a completely different person. Physically, the space he took up was warped in unexpected ways; maneuvering around him in those first hours had been quite the trip, what with Sam's hips unexpectedly swinging out in all directions as he teetered and tottered throughout the room (something Dean found, he couldn't lie, to be extraordinarily cute). Emotionally though, that was where it was disconcerting. In the hours Sam spent with the book open, he became almost a man possessed – his brother would swear the way he did research made him seem like he was running for his life. But when the books closed for a meal, or Sammy fell asleep on them, there was to be seen in his demeanor a sliver of something…different. Admittedly the regression had come on both of them fast, and they were still adjusting. But a small voice whispered in the back of Dean's head that lately, when his little brother wasn't over-compensating by working overtime to solve their mystery, Sam seemed to be slipping into contentment with the new arrangement.

An arrangement that wasn't entirely bad, either, Dean mused – odd as that sounded. The afternoon of the diapering, and after about three solid hours over his three assigned books, Dean had made a run up to the store that they'd bought the diapers from, in hopes of catching Jack; he had some more questions.

Jack was still standing at the same deserted cash register the brothers had found him at this morning, and the young man's eyes lit up briefly when they set on Dean as he came walking quickly up.

"You've come back for some more 'protection?'" Jack lightly teased.

"In a manner of speaking: I realized from earlier that you seem to have a pretty good grasp on what all I'd need to keep someone happy and comfortable in their diapered state. This morning, we were coming by for a quick fix, but if this thing drags on for a few more days, I'm gonna have to start thinking outside the box…" If Jack had been thrown by his customer's odd ramble, he showed no signs of it.

"You mean clothes and stuff, right? Well, first thing is that you'll need to find some pants and shirts that can conceal the diaper well, but still be easy to bear for the wearer. I'd recommend checking out the medical supply outlet across the street. Make a quick run over there and stock up on their elastic-band play shorts – those will give whoever slips 'em on mobility and privacy – and the crib shirts; don't worry about the name, it isn't really for the crib, it's just a loose, baggy shirt that should come to about your belly button, leaving space for whomever to make intermittent diaper checks (you know, the two fingers down the front of the diaper, to see if there's wetness).

"Ok, sure. And I already have the baby powder–"

"Which you should buy a few more bottles of–"

"Anything else you recommend?"

"Don't forget the plastic pants. And depending on the situation, onesies would be a good all-day piece of clothing if the wearer isn't much for outdoors; and going with that, bottles and formula are easy to pick up too…"

"No, this stuff is too babyish – Sam would never go for it. I just need all the basics to keep him clean and content."

"Well then, together the clothes and what you've already got back home should keep you set."

"Really? Thanks," Dean said, a smile of satisfaction spreading across his face as he realized this whole thing would be more stream-lined than he'd imagined. If the two of them had realized that they'd dropped the pretense early on that either of them was currently the diaper-wearer in question, they hadn't said anything. Until…

"The guy who was with you earlier, is all this stuff going to be for him?"

"Umm, yeah; earlier I just had to cover for him, help relieve the embarrassment. But I'm afraid my little brother is having some pretty constant trouble and the whole diaper route seemed best."

"Sounds about right, but I can imagine how he'll feel going through all this. And when you get back with even more baby gear, well…my dad never went there but I can imagine that being led down the road of Second Babyhood can't be easy."

"That's not what I'm doing," Dean replied, an edge hovering in his response. Yet even as he tossed it out, he realized he'd been wrong. These last days being around Sam – first stumbling about in all that confusion, and then diapering him, and now this – had triggered a set of feelings in him; it was like being in Big Brother Overdrive. _"This is what you should get used to: Sam is going to stay like this – you won't find a cure. You're only letting him fool himself; he should go ahead and start adjusting to his regressed state…or the adjustment will be done for him," _a dark part of his mind whispered.

"Hey, sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. I totally admire you for taking care of your brother right now, it's bound to be a bumpy ride for him and for you, and I'll be happy to help anyway I can," Jack assuaged Dean.

"No, no, you've been great. And if I have any more questions, I'll be sure to stop by here." Dean said with a quick wave. As he was leaving, Jack called out.

"Tell the little guy to keep hanging in there, for me, ok? Tell him I said it'll get better, especially with someone like you around," Jack said. Again there passed a mutual acceptance between them that Jack's labeling of Sam as the "little guy" was ok.

"Sure thing, and thanks again."

**II**

Using his diaper for the first time, after Dean had left to go get some "more things," was an unintentional occurrence, but not an unpleasant experience. It happened about the time Sam had cracked open the book he had kept coming back to. It was an older edition of the usual spell encyclopedia; but it seemed that in this print, there was a much longer section on regression spells. The area that interested him took up about thirty-five pages, and it was densely complicated at that, so working through them had taken most of these two days. The longer he read into it though, the more he became sure this book would be the key – it would have the answer.

The accident in question had happened as he was first scanning through the nineteenth page. He hadn't been at the desk, his usual station the last 24-hours, but rather laid out on his bed, feet propped before him. As his eyes reached the second paragraph, something struck him. For a split-second he was sure it was an epiphany about their case – and that he'd discovered what he'd so long sought, but then with a small sigh, he realized his body was just taking its course after the curse. Again there was that same lack of pretense: one moment dry, the next wet. However Sam was prepared for what he knew would come after, and so he braced himself for the mini-whirlwind of euphoria that was about to be set off in his skull.

It never came.

Scratch that: as his bladder let go, the diaper began to warm and flow around his body; the thick softness becoming even more insulating – a sigh of contentment passed through Sam's lips. He couldn't help himself, but instead of being mildly terrified as he had been, he instead helplessly nestled down into his wet diaper, the warmth rushing straight into his brain, he could actually feel the mental regression occurring – pushing back the noisy part of himself that kept screaming "No, no," to what was happening.

In the fog of his pleasure, he didn't notice that he wasn't done relieving himself. Still more urine poured from his body, and the weight, size, and warmth of his diaper increased five-fold. _"I'm glad he bought Maximum Absorbency," _thought Sam sleepily. He realized that this was all wrong somehow, that a grown man shouldn't be so euphoric to be falling asleep in nothing but his sopping diaper, but his realizations were being overpowered by waves of emotions he had no control over. From that anxious moment in the Impala when he'd first felt contentment, the impulses of delight when diapered and security when Dean was around had been gaining ground – and now, he realized, they had more control over his body and mind than he did. _"I should tell Dean this is getting out of hand, get him to work with me double-time on this one book. If we pull another all-nighter, I'm sure we can pull it off…" _The frantic part of himself that had been locked away yelled.

Sam's delusions of a quick reversal of his situation were cut off as he finally drifted off to sleep, his mouth falling open in the process, allowing a long string of drool to begin forming. What he hadn't factored into his contingency plans against his regression was that each moment more he spent in dreamland, the curse ran more rampant in his brain, planting itself in crevices thought protected from the babyish-influence, waiting for the moment to strike the final blow…

A small time later, he awoke again.

He first noticed that Dean had yet to return. A week ago, he would have simply turned over and gone back to his nap. But now, he was a different Sam; Dean's absence caused a well-spring of fear into his heart. Still, there was more than a fragment left of the old demon hunter, and after a moment or two of fearful glancing around the innocuous room, he managed to get himself under control.

Next, he realized that he'd filled his diaper quite to the top. But as he thought back over the last few minutes of his research, and as he had started to pee himself, his memories grew dim. He could picture the deep-seeded happiness and safety he felt as he squirmed deeper into his messy garment (and he distinctly recalled the powerful effects the warmth of the diaper had had on him), but the clarity and coherence he'd come to expect from himself were missing. In an attempt to sort this out he began shifting the pieces of his mind back together, mulling over the stuff he'd read recently about his situation; but the more he put together, the more fell apart. The cursed crib swam into his vision as he was attempting to remember an obscure bit about the origin of regressive magic.

_"I'm losing it, I can feel it. First I feel…things I won't face; and then they grab hold of me like that. This game needs to end soon, or I might not be playing for too much longer."_

The book: he'd forgotten in his haste to remember the one thing that was now important above all else. It was still lying in his lap, open, where he'd left it. He let himself have the pleasure of a small smile – there was still a ray of hope. He brought his eyes back to the section he'd been reading earlier and began making a mental list of all the ingredients he'd need to try out this proposed reversal spell. Sam shifted his weight. That was a mistake.

Moving his hips around on the bed trying to find a more comfortable position, what Sammy found instead was the warmth that had set his mental state into a tailspin before. History repeated itself. He'd like to say he'd had a moment to whisper-cry some protest as he felt that foreign ocean of Self come crashing upon him, but in truth it was as if a light had switched. One second he was studiously reading, and the next his eyes had grown duller and he was wriggling around in his diaper preparing for Phase Two of his nap, the book forgotten. The need struck again to soil himself, but it wasn't to piss this time. Within one longer-than-normal moment of effort, Sam had now effectively filled his diaper with two bodily fluids. The stickiness of his new substance, added to the warmth that had been on a rampant destruction with his neurons, created a new level of joy for the man. If an outside observer had been inside Sam's mind, they would have been witness to a fascinating event: the synapses and connections of personality and intelligence were all there one minute, bright and crackling, but as Sam continued to sink deeper into his daze, they went out. No longer did troubled thoughts dart around the edges of his psyche. For these brief and blessed minutes, Sam Winchester was an untroubled baby boy again, rolling about his bed, enjoying the satisfactions to be had from the security of a very thick, very soiled, diaper.

If either brother had been here to witness this transformation, it would have shocked them; not just with its rapidity, but its effectiveness.

With one last honest-to-God giggle of unfettered joy, Sam let his head fall back, and fell asleep.

**III**

Entering the motel again, new purchases in one hand and keys in the other, Dean encountered three new things waiting for him.

The first was his sleeping brother.

The second was a very stinky present his brother had dropped off for him.

And the third was an instant of unvarnished _rightness _that alighted on the whole scene. Dean felt himself easily slipping into the tranquility of returning home to a soiled baby brother, already half-way through his nap, and ready for a change. Then the real Dean Winchester slipped back into place and the whole thing became just exactly what it was: another scene in their very weird lives – just another obstacle to face.

"Let's get you changed," Dean told his sleeping brother as he set aside the things he'd just bought.

Jack's tips had been spot on. Dean had run over to the outlet next door – manned by a squat man in his early sixties – and picked up everything that'd been suggested to him. He first found the play shorts. They'd been marketed in the store as "perfect for the active toddler!" But Dean figured if he threw away the packaging before presenting them to his brother, all would be well. Inside the box were four pairs of the shorts, each in a different primary color (red, blue, yellow, and green). He'd gotten two boxes, then he'd moved on to the plastic pants, of which he'd gotten six pairs (these weren't in primary colors, but an unavoidable pattern of, alternately, rattles and baby bottles or ducks and fluffy white diapers).

He went off to find the crib shirts

He'd found them sold individually; and though Jack might have meant what he said about them being not just for cribs, they were clearly for someone of the baby persuasion. At least wearing the blue or red shorts, Sam could still reasonably go back into public, but these shirts…they screamed his problem to any passerby. They were in actuality made of a loose, semi-thick cotton, and Dean could tell from just where they hung on the rack that when Sam put them on, the shirts would only reach about half-way down his stomach, leaving room for those "diaper checks" Jack had mentioned. The problem was in what was on the shirts, though. Through all the shirts he thumbed past, and there were more than thirty there at least, he saw only the same following designs repeated: "**Daddy's Boy**," "**Momma's Boy**," "**I'm Behind Bars and Lovin' It**," or "**Wearing a Diaper is Only Half the Fun**." Needless to say, none of these would satisfy the man that Dean had left back at the hotel, the hunter who was diligently extricating himself from a complicated curse. But his hands strayed over the pile of shirts anyways, his fingers left in limbo by his indecision. _"Go ahead and get them, and when you get back just make Sam wear them. What's he going to do to stop you? You're his big brother, you change his diapers and keep him safe – and you'd be surprised just how much of all this stuff he'll do," _a silky tone casually said to him in the back of his mind. That part of his head was in direct cahoots with the Dean who'd been _happy _returning to a messy napping baby after his shopping, but not the Dean who was currently standing in the outlet. But still his hands hovered.

With an anguished cry, he grabbed up as many shirts as shorts (buying only the **"Daddy's Boy**" and "**Wearing a Diaper is Only Half the Fun**" slogans). _"I won't make him wear these, I'll just mention them, you know, so if he wants to wear some shirts, he can wear these; I'm giving him options…" _He soothed himself frantically – it felt like a betrayal of the brother he'd ridden with so many times across country, or hunted with all his life. His guilt was complicated in that, when he turned back to the register to check-out and leave, he saw an entire row of plain crib shirts. They had been in Dean's plain view from the moment he stepped in the door, but he had gone straight for the super-infantile versions without a care. _"If Sam is falling into this regression trap, I may be very well greasing the tracks," _was his only admonishment as he walked back up through the store.

As he neared the cashier, he passed through the aisles carrying all the things he'd told Jack that Sam wouldn't go for: onesies, bottles and formula, footed pajamas. There was very little temptation for him in the beginning, but as he went farther into the aisle that voice in the back of his head got stronger, the desires of the Other Dean got harder to resist. He knew he couldn't do this to Sam; that he couldn't very well help ease his little brother into a babyhood neither of them wanted (and that they were both working to stop) – especially when Dean was supposed to be the protector. But the actual trouble to be caused if Dean was to pick up a couple of onesies for his baby brother, or a bottle or two with some formula, began to fade with his hesitation. It wouldn't be like he was buying Sam a crib, his mind reasoned, he was just trying to make his brother's new conditions as relaxing as possible. When he finally stopped to peruse the items in question, he felt the Dean he'd been when he entered the outlet melt backwards, not just into the back of his head but away – gone for good.

The New Dean took over then, and so Sam's older brother began happily scooping up onesies and footed pajamas (with only the most babyish designs, of course), bottles, and boxes of formula. Once he was finished, he turned his head over to the aisle that was marked as selling cribs, but then the creeping control of the witch's curse shuddered and gave out, letting Dean back in control. It wasn't surprise he felt as he realized he had in fact bought the things he'd so hotly disputed getting earlier, it was really more of a pleasant acknowledgement that he and Sam were now riders on an attraction from which they couldn't get off. None of this though was acknowledged by his fore-brain; all of these realizations bubbled in the back of his head, supporting the parts of his personality that had fallen so hard for the faux-baby boy (_"Or is it faux-big boy?" _New Dean whispered), making them stronger. If he'd had the presence of mind to take a good long look at his position over his own mind, he'd have found the curse to have run rampant with his body, and Dean's control hanging precariously. But the witch's evil trick was in the slow eventuality of her magic, and neither of the boys – all big and blustery declarations to the contrary – were strong enough to fight it.

"I just hope Sam can forgive me for selling him out like this," Dean huffed as he paid for the things he'd only half-bought. He then walked to the Impala, got in, and headed back to the motel…

**IV**

Which is where he was now, preparing to slip a sleeping Sam out of his messy diaper without waking him. _"The little guy could use some sleep…" _he told himself, not quite noticing that even though he'd mostly forgotten the trouble at the medical outlet, and that he'd mostly regained the old We'll-Fight-This-and-Win presence of mind, he was still deeply entrenched with Sam in the regression.

He set the clothes and other things down on the desk and fetched a clean diaper. Moving back to the bed, he was briefly grateful that Sam hadn't decided to wear more layers of his old clothing; the trouble Dean would have had stripping Sam of his pants and briefs without creating too much of a stir would have been huge. Now though, all he had to do was reach up to his sleeping brother's hips, unfasten the diaper, ease Sam's butt into the air for a split-second, and then the job was done. Setting the mess in a small pile next to him, Dean reached back for some clean wipes, which he then proceeded to run across Sam's butt, cleaning up the remnants of the mess he'd created earlier. A thought struck him that a changing table would be a big asset – it'd certainly make these quiet little intermittent changes a lot more sterile for all involved – but then he realized guiltily that such an act would be buying straight into Naz's hands; he should be helping Sam see the light at the end of the tunnel, not bogging him down in more baby crap (no pun intended). He grabbed up a another thick diaper from the box of them sitting by Sam's bed, fastened it around his hips, and then brought it up snuggly around his genitals, pining it shut so as to make it extra snug for the sleeping baby boy, err, man.

As Dean pondered how best to reveal his purchases to his brother, he realized the easiest thing would just be for him to put the clothes on Sam. No, he thought, it wasn't based on the suggestion of that voice in his head earlier; it really would just be simpler for both of them if they could cut out the possible melodrama from Dean's shopping and just have Sam go ahead and except it.

The main problem with fighting the curse was revealed in this last thought, as Dean showed that he too had long ago slipped under the tide of the foreign influence.

With his decision made, Dean pulled out the two possible outfits for his brother. On his left sat the play shorts and he crib shirt (he'd chosen the "**Daddy's Boy**" shirt over the other one, another guilty pleasure since he'd always sort of thought of Sam as one), while on his right was a onesie. Again, if this had been the Dean from even yesterday, the choice would have been simple – albeit still a tad humiliating. But he was rapidly succumbing to the charm of this regressing Sam, and he _did _have the power to pick either one didn't he? Wasn't that the whole point of dressing his brother before he woke up, so that Dean could ultimately make the decision without any drama? Amidst this mental turmoil the voice spoke again, _"Just go with the onesie; who's going to know…Sam? He won't do anything, you'll see: he might complain, but you're the "Daddy," err, Big Brother, now. You make the decisions."_

The argument was a cheap one, easily manipulative on his emotions, but it worked. With an overwhelming rush of pride and love for the heavily-diapered young man sitting on the bed before him, Dean scooped up the onesie and moved in closer to begin dressing Sam. Dean was half-way through slipping the second of Sam's arms through the elastic arm hole (which reached to about half way up his upper-arm) when his little brother began to stir.

At first Dean had panicked, worried that Sam would react badly to awakening in an even more submissive position; but all Sam was at first was groggy…and a little incoherent. All the hunter could pick up from him was small cooing and gurgling sounds. Such that it was then, Dean finished with the arms and moved on to the crotch. The material had already been stretched to his waist, and had therefore covered the top-part of Sam's diaper, all Dean had left was to bring the snaps from between his brother's legs and put them into place. Accompanied as he was by the minor symphony of Sam's noises, this was done in a matter of moments; the rich, soft, red material now covering Sam's body only enhancing his ultra-thick diaper – the material was even sticking out of the leg holes at random intervals – and serving to sink his physical image down another level to "baby." If it was possible, and with him just beginning to stir awake (his hair still tousled seven ways to Sunday, the drool still pooled under his chin), Sam had now become even more adorable.

Stepping back from the bed to observe his handiwork, the older hunter was struck by twin sensations. The first was that Dean had done this before. No, he hadn't helped diaper and unwittingly regress his little brother in a past life; but he had helped dress him, and back at a time when Sam had been just as incoherent (_"There may even have been cooing and gurgling then too," _he mused).

It'd been back when Sam was fourteen. It had been one of the earlier hunts Sam had gone on and it hadn't ended well; Sam was stuck in the hospital for a while as they re-set his left leg. On the last day in there, Dean had been helping gather his brother's stuff together so they could get the heck out of Dodge – John having already gone ahead two days before to keep the tail on a serious hunt – and Sam was supposed to be getting himself dressed.

Once Dean had finished collecting the few books and the CD player Sam had had with him, he turned to monitor his sibling's progress. What he found was a boy leaning heavily on the hospital bed, upper-body encased in a long-sleeve dark green shirt (one arm had made it through, and was now wildly flailing in the air), and lower-body still pretty bare: the only thing Sam had managed to get on to cover his modesty being the pair of patterned Batman Boys Briefs Dean had got Sam the first day he'd ended up in the hospital; they'd been a joke. Seeing his little brother in such distress was, he had to admit, quite funny. Especially as Dean could obviously imagine the thought path Sam had followed as he'd attempted to dress himself. He'd obviously grabbed the nearest shirt available – the one they'd taken off of him after the hunt that night, a small blood stain still visible on the breast – and then proceeded to search about until he laid eyes on something at least vaguely resembling his preferred underwear. The fact that he snatched up the joke pair from where his older brother had tucked them next to his bed (so that they'd be boldly displayed for all, of course) made it all the funnier to Dean – especially when he considered that his brother ferociously guarded the secret of where he stood in the Boxers Vs. Briefs war from everyone except his brother – who had to actually buy the underwear (understandably, as Dean had taken to daily mockery of the young hunter's briefs since he himself had been going through a boxer phase). To see him in such a mess was the highlight of Dean's day, easy, and he was tempted to take a picture. He sided with just helping Sam out.

"Easy buddy, let's sit down: Dean will help get you set up," he said as he eased Sam's confused form back onto the bed. He set about untangling his brother from his shirt but once he'd finished, he had to restrain himself yet again from laughing. Sam's head was an entire joke unto itself: his hear was a crazy storm, his eyes were glassy, he was making noises Dean hadn't heard since they were both very small, and a long string of drool was hanging from Sam's mouth.

"Must be the morphine they dope you up with, kid," Dean dryly commented. He looked around for Sam's pants, and then slipped them up around his hips (_"I'll just keep the Batman tighty-whities on him since he seems to like them so much; I might even pick him up another pack or two on the ride home…" _he wickedly imagined). He didn't bother with Sam's socks or shoes, as he would be wheeled out to the Impala. The job of dressing his baby brother done, he practically carried him to the wheelchair and began the task of memorizing in vivid detail every giggle, wriggle, and goofy smile covered in drool that Sam unleashed over the next four hours. They would make great blackmail material…

Dean flashed back now to his current situation, looking down at his heavily-diapered, groggy, younger brother, and felt the second sensation hit him.

It was a repeat of all those times the last two days when he'd felt his resolution to save Sam from the curse slip; when he felt the urge to help instead of hinder the regression take control. This was just like that, but stronger. Much stronger.

Suddenly he wasn't Dean Winchester, protective older brother of a semi-psychic demon hunter. He was Dean Winchester, paternal guardian to a man-boy watching his very life slip through his fingers. He found the latter position, oddly, more satisfying at this very moment. It was obviously the curse – the voice in the back of his head (which, if he'd ever taken to studying it, he would have found to be exactly the same one that was slowing destroying Sam) coupled with the slowly-gained strength of New Dean, but its power was absolute. The effects weren't as drastic as those Sam felt earlier that day, when everything had come messily crashing down around his ears, but several key things about Dean shifted. A mirror-image of Sam's goofy smile from his memory creeped across his face, Naz and her mischief were instantly forgotten, and the hunter would have begun making plans for a mini-nursery in their motel room if not for the next statement.

"I found a cure," Sam ground out (his strength assumingly being drained from fighting through the deep and ugly mental tangle he found himself in). And suddenly, the strange power over both was gone and they both realized they'd stumbled too far down a dark path – but there was a light now they could see, and they would lunge for it with all they had


	5. Chapter 4

_"Sammy plops down on his diapered-butt at the end of the road…and straight into a new life."_

**I**

It was ironic for an event that began with a carefully-tossed circle of dirt to end with dirt as well. But such was the nature of the spell the brothers had been working on for the last two days. They had both realized that the moment before the cure was discovered to both of them, the Winchesters had been on the edge of a very tall cliff. Yet ever since then, they'd been mostly free of it; no more psychotropic baby feelings for Sam, and no more joyful domestic feelings for Dean. Still, they had fallen into a routine (the same routine the reader will realize was mentioned back in chapter three). Dean had been doing almost all of the outside motel work, and Sam spent his time writing ingredient lists, cross-checking facts, and preparing the room. There were other things too: Dean always left and returned to the house at three distinct times. In the morning, he would get his stuff and head to the libraries or bookstores Sam had mentioned the night before, but right as he would leave, he'd stop over at the younger man's bed and change his diaper. Very rarely would Sam awake on these occasions, usually he'd just briefly stir only to be calmed back to darkness by Dean's slow, deep murmurings of comfort. But when Dean came back at lunch time – inevitably always with lunch in toe – Sam would be wide awake for his diaper change. His brother would set down everything he'd found while out, scoop Sam up from his place at the desk, and set him down on the bed to be changed. Usually as he was doing so, he'd tickle his little brother as much as he could (a small side-effect of those first two days, but neither seemed to mind it). And when they both went to bed, it was a ritual now for Sam to be diapered up tight before drifting off to sleep.

Another element retained in a far more docile capacity were his clothes; Sam continued to wear the onesies, crib shirts, and play shorts Dean had gotten on his wild shopping spree – but not without first playfully complaining.

"You know I look just like a big lumpy tomato?" He had quipped soon after telling Dean he'd found a cure.

"You are a big lumpy tomato…oops, I mean: didn't Dad tell you after you were born?"

"This curse must be affecting you too, because that was not funny at _all_."

"Yeah well taking care of my 'baby' brother just might suck all the humor out of me."

"Yeah well if you'd go ahead and get working, that won't be the case for too much longer."

"Touché," Dean said grabbing up the first of many lists Sam would make over the next few days. As he headed towards the door, he turned back to his little brother with a slight grin, "Are you going to change?"

"What?" Sam said, looking up from his book. He then realized what Dean meant, "I, uhh, probably not. I figure this stuff is as comfortable as I'm going to get, and it's not like I'll be leaving the motel till this is all over anyway."

"Sure, yeah I understand. But you still look like a tomato."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

The Winchester boys got to work.

**II**

Reflecting back over the mental mess that had been those first days after Naz's spell took hold, Sam discovered some disquieting things about himself: one, he wasn't nearly as well-versed in fighting this sort of thing as he'd imagined; two, he hadn't predicted well enough the strength of the magic attacking his (and Dean's) body; and three – and this one was just on a more personal note – how is it that he could find all of this so pleasurable? Yes, he told himself, it hadn't exactly been him. The spell had slowly subverted his personality in favor of a highly more submissive subconscious until the two of them blended and merged, but still: he was a demon hunter by trade…and being dressed and diapered and cared for by another man just felt _odd_. He thanked God or whoever it was quietly that it wasn't Bobby or (heaven forbid) his Dad who'd had to deal with him in this state; because becoming a baby boy for either of them wouldn't be just odd, it'd be humiliating.

He turned back to the work at hand: the reversal spell was fairly easy to pick up and work out once he'd found it. The main problem was time – the spell said it'd require about two days to prepare, and Sam was mildly afraid that, even though he felt fine now, he didn't have two days to work in his normal capacity. Even still, he resolved to try.

_"I'm free for now, and so is Dean apparently: let's make the best of it." _

His work ethic over the next two days though, no matter how true their mutual thought was that the effects of the spell had receded, was heavily influenced by his current state. First were the diaper changes, in which Dean would pop up at three set times after his outside research and clean his brother up. The changes themselves weren't nearly as cold and distant as they should have been to quarantine the still volatile element of Sam's fading regression; instead, they usually involved Dean horsing around with Sam as he stripped him out of his onesie or play shorts, and then a mad tickling session before Sam was left naked on the bed as his big brother fetched a clean diaper, and then – most interesting of all – a quiet moment of soothing as Dean pulled the mega-thick diaper up between Sam's thighs.

These were the only obvious moments that perhaps Naz wasn't as gone for good as they hoped, but they weren't the only things that were different as a result of their current problem. Like Sam had mentioned earlier, his clothes from before now sat still on top of his bag gathering dust – the bright-white Hanes, Jockey, FotL, and Abercrombie & Fitch briefs he used to wear constantly getting mildly stale from disuse. His other pants and shirts just a more steady reminder that now Sam Winchester wore specifically only those clothes his older brother could put him in.

Which was another changed thing: when Dean was around Sam before or after his research runs, he invariably always made the decisions. Ok, sure it wasn't about the hunt mostly, but the other things, the more domestic things, always seemed to fall in Dean's area of expertise. Sam awoke every morning with Dean either stripping him down and leaving him in a clean diaper for the day ("To air you out, Sam," he'd laugh) or to being dressed in alternately a colored onesie or the shorts-shirt combo. The last time Sam remembered him making a decision about his own clothing had been before they had met Jack; before they bought the diapers. But it wasn't just the clothes, sometimes Dean would come home at night and with very little indication declare it was time for bed. Always when these statements came Sam was still knee-deep in spell research, and always Dean would usually have to physically (albeit playfully) force/carry the younger hunter to bed. Once after these times Sam woke up on the floor, only to be awakened by Dean's teasing jibe that maybe a crib wouldn't be such a bad idea after all.

Yet in the scheme of things, he wondered, did it matter if he got to dress himself or control when, where, and how he ate or slept? Not if it helped reverse the curse, he thought forcefully. But his musings had revealed an eerie omen perhaps of what could happen if the Winchesters weren't careful a second time: the spell had snuck up on them before, and it could do it again.

It hadn't managed to get any farther than the light domination of Dean the morning of that third day, when, after having been suited up in some navy play shorts and a green shirt ("**Daddy's Boy**" now emblazoned on his chest, he was mildly embarrassed to admit), Sam announced that they would be ready by the afternoon.

"You sure, Sam?"

"I'm about as sure about this spell as any other we've cast, but let's just hope this one goes over better than the last we tried with the witch."

"Something tells me you don't think we'll get a second chance after this."

"No, it's not that, it's just…"

"You're not so sure how much time we have left," Dean finished for his brother. Sam could only respond with a slight up-tilt of his head to meet his older brother's eyes, his own filled with hesitation and fragile hope. Dean answered by reaching an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in close to his chest for a half-hug.

"I won't let this get us, kiddo. If I have to, I'll research until my hair turns grey, but this won't get you forever. We'll stop it, I promise," Dean murmured into Sam's hair. And for a moment, it was just like it was month's before (ok, without the hugging) when Dean would comfort some inane trouble Sam had about his place in this whole demon-world-hierarchy mess.

"Ok, well then to finish I'll just need one more thing from the store, and then we can get started," Sam said, still leaning into the comforting presence of his big brother.

"Sure thing; I'll be back before you know it and then we can end all this."

"God, I hope you're right."

"I always am, Sammy, I always am."

**III**

Standing in the elaborate circle of "dust" Sam had inscribed around himself not two hours later, he took a stray moment to look back over all that had happened these last few days:

There'd been the first fateful night, when the brothers had come home from a successful witch hunt ready and eager to get some much needed rest.

Then there'd been the morning after, when Sam woke up to that terrifying sensation from his memories, after which his cover-up could only delay the inevitable…

Telling Dean, which happened as they were researching a demon now long gone two states over; Sam had been concentrating too hard and he'd had too much coffee (or so he told himself then, now he wasn't sure of that at all) when suddenly he pissed his pants. Bad. This was how Dean found his little brother: standing uncertainly in the middle of a dark stack of books, a massive stain spreading from his crotch to his knees.

His brother's reaction had been quicker than his was, and Dean realized in a matter of moments that the witch was behind this. As he helped Sam shamefully from the store, his little brother couldn't help but broach the thing that'd occurred that morning – to which Dean responded with astonishing aplomb.

The ride to the library, in which Sam's bladder again rebelled, responding not in the least to his attempts to hold it back (and of course, those scary moments of pleasure that occurred after). When Dean finally noticed, after Sam had had a near emotional breakdown from the cosmic randomness of all of it, he had responded with another practicality…

Diapers: thick and made for maximum absorbency. That was what they bought in the middle of a late-afternoon crowd of shoppers at a local supermarket. As they were checking out they'd met an anomaly: a high-school jock named Jack who had gone through the exact same thing and who would provide advice and support to Dean and Sam on more than this occasion.

The return to the motel room, where Dean helped diaper his brother for the first time in nearly twenty years. Then those dark whispers that entered both of their minds, luring each into thinking of the contentment and solidity of their situation.

That afternoon after the diapering – when Sam discovered their big break and Dean went out to get some more ideas from Jack – that led them deepest into Naz's hold: Sam could still recall the controlling haze of bliss and innocence that had ravaged his brain, leaving him a drooling baby; and Dean could still vividly call up those hyper-aware feelings he'd had for his brother's person.

Sam's first words after he'd dragged his way up from the depths of his subconscious, and the flurry of activity it had prompted these last days. The preparations, the supplies, the Latin phrase memorizations, the routine they'd fallen into. He didn't have to acknowledge the fact that they both allowed Sam to stay half-way in his baby-ish persona to know it was there: he was reminded every time a mirror caught his eye, or he glanced down and noticed his body was covered in a onesie or those play shorts.

And now this, on the afternoon of the fourth day after he noticed he was being altered, in which he would cease to be this odd creature: a man trapped in an increasingly boy's body. He stood in the middle of his design, one hand holding a spell book, the other resting beside his stomach. In a moment, he and Dean would begin the magic and then the witch would lose, for good. All of these recollections and misunderstandings, confusions and doubts, would be banished when he was free: the mental turmoil, the physical inabilities, and the clothes, _all of it_.

"Let's get to work."

**IV**

Several things happened at once, and Dean had trouble keeping up with all of them.

The first was that, indeed, the spell _did _work. Dean was glad; a part of him had worried that all of this running about was an elaborately-constructed avoidance technique. But sure enough, there was a swirl of magic from around his little brother – encasing both him and the symbol they'd both drawn on the motel floor – to make him eat his words.

The second thing was Sam's cry of pain. It began as a sound of pure discomfort and then escalated to include outrage and disgust. It was an orchestra or human suffering; Sam's wails rose and fell for several minutes, and it wasn't just the aesthetic effect that was keeping Dean rooted to his seat: he _couldn't _move. Either the spell was going right, and had thrown them a wacky loophole, or the spell was going very, very wrong. The longer that noise came from his little brother, the more inclined Dean was to believe the latter.

And then the third thing: the silence, and what came after.

The markings on the motel floor had faded considerably. They had been a rich grey when Sam had drawn them not an hour earlier. Now, not only did they approximate the color of smoke, they stole its character too: the drawings were wispy, barely there – if you concentrated too hard, they bled into the background. But Sam was still standing, even if their magical artifice had seen better days. What Sam was saying _while _standing was a different matter entirely.

His hair was a mess, but that wasn't what struck Dean first. What hit him, with a crushing immediacy, was that this was the first time in a long while (or so it seemed, though it'd really been a matter of days) that he'd seen Sam standing in that old posture he'd affected over the years. Lanky, but hunched: turning his height into a semi-comical stoop. For days now all Dean had seen was a waddle, or a shuffle, or a sprawl, or – on one or two occasions – a crawl. But seeing this old Sam-stance was a swift reminder of all they had lost, and, hopefully, all that they had just regained.

"Dean, something isn't right."

"What do you mean? I saw the circle, I heard the words, I felt the magic, and yeah, that howl of yours was pretty wild, but everything seems fine, right? And here you are, good as new."

"No, wrong. I mean, I don't know. Yeah, I did everything I was supposed to; and, yeah, there was the customary swirls and light show, but I don't feel…I don't feel quite all here, Dean."

"Well do you want to try it again?"

"It's not that; somehow I don't think a repeat performance is going to change things. It's just that, I can feel me – Sam Winchester, strapping young hunter and former pre-law student – all up in my head, itching and ready to go. But then something will shift: the wind will blow or I will hear a car honk down the street, and I can just sense it all begin to slip."

"And we're sure you're voodoo was for sure?"

"It seemed 100 percent, and the ingredients were pretty hard core. So, yeah, it should have worked."

"Well then kiddo, maybe we could…I don't know. Sit down, would you? We can talk – have one of your patented Chick Flick Moments – and maybe this will pass; maybe it's just some wacky side-effect, you know, that you can still feel the effects of that whole mess."

"Yeah, maybe you're right. Maybe this is all some side-effect. Maybe we're done," Sam agreed earnestly, resting himself at the foot of Dean's bed. His brother realized that Sam was still wearing the onesie, and thus the fluffy (and probably heavily-soiled) diaper underneath it. But he wouldn't shake this up, especially if it needed time to firm up in Sam's head.

"So…what should we talk about?" His little brother broke into his reverie.

"Tell me about that awesome bit of researching you just pulled, Sammy. I mean, you came up with a reversal spell in, like, seconds flat."

"Well, I can't take that much credit: it's been rumbling around in my head but with all this happening," Sam gestured about the room, to the floor and then to the diapers in the corner, "I wasn't quite on top of things. But then when I woke up two days ago, it just hit me. I knew I'd found it."

"Talk about a lucky break. If you hadn't pulled through there, I'm not sure…I mean, to be honest with you, I could feel that witch's spell getting pretty strong on me."

"On both of us, actually; yeah, I know what you mean. When you were out that afternoon, I–" Sam stopped for a second: he had felt the shifting again.

"You what, Sam?"

"Nothing, I just, I felt it too: the witch's magic. But then you came back and the rest is history." As he had finished his sentence, he had stammered a bit – out of fear or panic or something else, Sam couldn't say. Dean picked up on it, and hoped to subtly guide his brother back on calmer waters, in a further attempt to weather the storm.

"Well you really saved our butts…what a change of scenery!" Dean joked, playfully ruffling Sam's hair to punctuate his light-hearted joke.

"Maybe I shouldn't have saved you: maybe I should have just let you stay where you were, staring all googly-eyed at bottles and cribs," Sam retorted. As he hit the final word, there wasn't just another shift, it was a topple; he could feel himself hit a snag and fumble down a level. It was disconcerting and scary.

"Ah, Dean? It's happening again."

"Keep talking, Sammy. Talk about anything, tell me what you found out about the witch." Dean hoped this advice would keep Sam calm for a few more minutes (he was still convinced these were side-effects that would abate with time).

"Ok, sure. It turns out Naz picked up her magic as part of an ancient cabal of witches that viewed magic more as a means than an end. They saw the apocalypse as their goal; they were very much nihilists with spell books," Sam lectured. Dean let him, happy to see his baby brother relaxing somewhat. "Anyway, the cabal is very selective, and once they've trained you, you're gone. When Naz was kicked, she came here. But she was smart, she knew her death & destruction fix would have to be small-time or else she'd be noticed by people – people like us. Her whole small-time act didn't go so well, and that's how we ended up here, and then we all know what happ–" Sam stopped again: it was another one of those fumbles. But this one took him even longer to hit the ground and get his mental bearings; for a few terrifying seconds he'd been in mental freefall.

Dean picked up on his distress, and for the first time since they'd cast the spell, he realized the implications of what was happening…or rather, what was reversing.

"Stay with me, ok? Just, keep talking. Hold on to what you've got, if that's what is being taken. We can't let this crazy bitch beat us Sammy, we're stronger than that, right? Just…keep talking." And so Sam did, for the next hour and a half. Over that time, he felt more slipping, and with each one a little more was lost. By the end, and if he still retained his adult presence of mind (which he didn't fully, any longer), he would have noticed his vocabulary and critical thinking to be diminishing at an escalating rate. Their time was shrinking.

Their positions on the bed had also changed. As both realized the changes that were once again ravaging them uncontrollably, they both reacted in oddly symbiotic ways. Sam lent against the headboard, as Dean made room for him, and then slung a protective arm around Sam's shoulders.

"Whatever comes our way, Sam, we'll make it. Naz won't get us together, she can't. She just can't," Dean told Sam forcefully. He nudged Sam, silently urging his brother to keep talking. Sam obeyed, and with each word, a smaller and smaller part of his brain realized this was the end.

_"I'm gone; I'm standing on the court when the buzzer has really been ringing for five minutes: game over. I should tell Dean something before I go, I don't know what…maybe something profound and poetic, you know to put on my gravestone. What's 'profound' mean? That's a funny word…I know a joke I can tell Dean (besides the one where he practically cuddles up with me on the bed, __meh__). He feels warm; I'm sleepy. Maybe he won't mind if I just…I mean, I know I'm eleven and all, but Dad isn't around – he won't mind. There, he doesn't care. And it does feel good: comforting, warm. Where's my nightlight? I can't go to sleep without…oh, it's still daytime, but then why am I so sleepy? Where's my bottle and my teddy? I __gots__ my __diapee__, and I __gots__ Dean with me, but where's teddy? Teddy?! __Haha__, Dean is funny: he just tickled me. Stupid big brothers, I'm trying to go to sleep…hey what's that big thing at the end of the bed? Oh, that's my foot. It's __soo__ big! It's so warm…I better go __to sleep before Dean gets mad, maybe he'll make me some pancakes tomorrow before he teaches me the ABC's again…_

Dean gazed down as Sam succumbed to the dual powers of the curse and his need for sleep. As his brother had deteriorated, Dean had tried to be as detached as possible, as supportive as he could be of "big boy Sam," but the spell had progressed without him. He could almost trace the downward-spiral of Sam's mental state: from man to snide teenager to boy to toddler to baby. It was a tragedy in miniature, losing his little brother and best friend in a matter of hours, minutes. But what was worse was feeling the regressing Sam snuggled up to him and fall asleep, and then feel a reciprocated surge of emotions. They were still much weaker than they were before: if Sam was reversing after their counter-spell, Dean didn't seem to be.

With a last gaze of complete indecipherability – part despair, part resignation, part sickened joy, and part scheming – Dean Winchester turned towards the books where they had been put right before the spell had been cast. If Sam was truly gone, he wouldn't stay that way for long. Dean swore it.

Yet as he looked at the books, and then back to Sam, measuring already how to shift the least to reach his goal, the previous minor surge of emotions became a flood.

There wasn't subversion this time, as there had been in the store earlier in the week. Nor was there a slow backwards slide, as in the case of Sam. More aptly, and surprisingly, there was acceptance. _"Sam will need a caregiver now, not a crusading avenger. The world already experienced one John Winchester after all," _the voice whispered to him. Dean's eyes switched back to Sam's sleeping face, a small line of spit already beginning to drop from between his lips. Staring at the countenance of his sibling for only a few more moments was enough: the feelings supplanted themselves in Dean's consciousness, becoming invaders no longer. It wasn't a brutal, burn-all-and-take-all invasion like it had been for Sam (albeit disguised as a pleasant wash of happiness), but a steady and inevitable merging of a person with a necessary new set of ideals. There had been a permanent curve tossed into their life, and now the only remaining adult would have to compensate.

Dean struck upon a thought.

"I do believe Sammy, this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."


	6. Epilogue

_Authors Note: _Well, dear reader, we've finally come to the end of my first multi-chapter story. I hope, for those of you who have popped on over to read it, that you enjoyed it. And for those of you who stayed even longer to leave a review, my eternal thanks. I've already got ideas for a few more oneshots tossing around in the ol' noggin, and eventually I plan to outline the structure for my next big story (don't worry...it's sans diapers, but it still has all the Sam-angsty'all crave). I hope you'll stick with me 'till then.

**I**

Dean scrutinized every shadow he saw for the first three months. And he had a lot of shadows to peer anxiously into – the neighborhood was practically full of them. It was also full of several other, markedly more pleasing things. Among them: the wide sidewalks going from the playground and park all the way down to the shore; the various slides and swing sets at the playground that Sam adored; the location, relative to the supermarket (making it more than easy for Dean to pop up there for an emergency this-or-that his brother needed), and other family-friend attractions. But most of all it was the atmosphere that Dean found himself falling more and more in love with. It wasn't like everyone was super accepting of their situation – that would mean that the pair were surrounded by a large circle of sympathetic and helpful friends which, even though a lot had changed in the last few months, was still pretty impossible – but everyone sure as hell left them the hell alone.

Except Jack, who they still managed to see every time they went to the store, and sometimes when they didn't. It was weird on several different levels; Dean realized that, but then again: what wasn't? So, sure, Jack Taylor was still only a freshman at the local community college (aka, he was only 19); and, sure, none of them were quite sure yet what role he played in their little set-up either. But none of that stopped the Winchesters and Jack from spending the occasional Friday or Saturday night over at Dean's apartment. And none of these factors stopped these nights from being fun, affable affairs. In the scheme of things, Dean reckoned, what was the problem with a newly-discovered connection with someone, even if that person were in the last place you'd expect? He'd found a friend – and he'd sure as hell needed one.

Stop. Go back.

The idea Dean had hit upon the morning after the spell was almost comically simple, preposterous even, for them. He would pull up roots with his brother for the final time, and re-settle in a new place. That would be it; that is what they'd do. He wasn't sure where to go yet, but it had to be somewhere where he and Sam could be peaceful and content. Certainly it'd have to have a mild climate, so Sam could go outdoors. But the people would have to be equally mild: he couldn't stand any hostility towards his little brother. And for himself, there'd need to be steady work – something he hadn't considered in, well, forever – and maybe a "job" every now and then. Wherever it was, the Winchesters would need to find it soon and settle down, because as the thought stole over Dean, he became more and more anxious to implement it: the fairy tale domesticity already intoxicating him.

Never in a million years did he consider they would settle at Ground Zero. In hindsight though, it was perfect. For each of his criteria, the place where the two of them had been staying passed with flying colors. Still, he was nervous, it seemed wrong to just suddenly _stop_. He had felt that way 

until one afternoon, when the whole enticing package hit him square in the face.

He'd been out at the market originally; Sam had been running low on baby powder. But on his walk back to the Impala, he turned his head from the highway exit to his left and saw what lay on his right. It was something Tim Burton would have cherished if only for the built-in irony factor. There were trees and shops and a town square and the way the sun dappled the leaves of just about everything growing green over there…wow. It wasn't as if the town had grown from nowhere, but it should had fallen into their lap; their own little Eden a few miles away from civilization. And it was quiet. It was what they wanted: Home.

Dean had returned to the motel room buzzing with happiness. He had a plan now and somewhere to go. When he stepped through the entrance to their room and say Sam asleep on his bed, everything was only re-confirmed. He began making preparations.

First he'd needed an apartment. On a mildly breezy Sunday morning the following week, he set out to find just that. In his hands he held a list of four different possibilities. Dean hoped to God he found what he needed with the first one; because if there was one thing in the entire world he wasn't, it was a prospective house buyer.

The first had been horrendous, bursting his bubble. It had been built when the town was first settled – or so said the real estate agent who followed him around like a lost puppy – but instead of a built-in air of dignity to the place, there was only musty rot. Its structure was a warped one. The first floor sprawled over nearly two blocks, but the second was an engineering anomaly: it was set daintily on a rambling lobby with barely any stress. Then came the third floor, which sought to re-establish the first's dominance in terms of square feet. The fourth was a lady, like the second, and rebelled at that plan. The overall effect wasn't just of a very obese man stuffed into a girdle, but also of one looming over you, seconds from collapsing on your shoes…and vomiting.

"Next."

The second had promise, but then Dean discovered it also had roaches.

The third was set in a quiet neighborhood, and its fixer-upper qualities only "enhanced its quaint charms." But, and Dean was being honest here, not picky, the place smelled funny; it freaked him out.

The fourth house did not, and for that (and practically after two whole day's looking) he could nearly fall on the ground in tears. It wasn't like the others. It was situated right off of the town square – which made it, geographically, almost next door to the market – but it had none of the shuddering decay of the first option. It existed in a surprisingly quiet atmosphere without being stuffy or "quaint." And there were no roaches.

Passing through the entrance to the lobby, Dean noticed that there would be four other occupants in the building with them; that was a number he could abide, especially if he could get to "know them" first and found they weren't lackeys for any demons.

Walking up the widely-spiraling central staircase to their apartment, Dean could see nothing potentially horrible in this latest prospect. Once he entered the apartment, things became even clearer for him. The living room was the first thing he saw, and it was comfortable in a way Dean had to admit had found very appealing. It was handkerchief-sized, and the walls and molding along the ceiling were decorated in a variety of colors – tope, beige, oak – so as to create a womb-like feeling. The wide sofa against the far wall, together with the two chairs flanking it, helped re-enforce such a notion, but the massive picture window behind the sofa lightened things up; it was all the comfort and security, without that feeling of No-Way-Out.

Once he entered the living room, he could see the kitchen. Comparatively it was much smaller, but for two bachelor-brothers living in a small town, how much kitchen would they really need? Luckily, Dean also already knew how to work his way through the dangling pots, pans, and other utensils present in the kitchen: he was no Emeril, but he could cook.

"I'll take you to the bedrooms, if you'd like," The realtor told Dean.

"Sure, yeah, that'd be great."

"Follow me, please."

Dean did, already trying to remember the layout of the apartment. This is what he noticed:

As you walked through the kitchen through the living room, a small hallway appeared.

From that hallway two doors came off, facing each other – the bedrooms – with a presumable bathroom as the dead-end door.

The bedroom to his left was the bigger one, and had a miniature connecting "hallway" (all of about three or four feet) to the bathroom. It too had the bare necessities inside of it already: a spindly, somehow imposing, dresser; a double bed that, Dean noted, looked simultaneously lived-in and completely appealing; and a desk, tiny as it was, with an accompanying tiny chair.

"This would be the master suite as it were, in a place this small," the realtor explained. Dean already figured: it'd be his room.

Going back to the hallway, he opened the door to the opposite room – Sam's room.

If he thought it was a pleasant coincidence, all of this just falling into their laps the minute they needed it, then now he was absolutely positive…that he was wrong. This was Fate, or God, or Serendipity. This was not coincidence; I mean, look at the room…

It was smaller than Dean's. And it, too, was furnished. The room was also blue, and not the navy kind. In grand panoramic fashion, from the doorway all the way around, the bedroom was a soothing baby blue; an expanse of calming ocean stretching around your eyes. The furnishings were of the same fashion. The bed wasn't a double, like Dean's, but rather a crib – a rather large one. And the dresser wasn't oak and spindly in here, but rather solid and rectangular, coated in several neon colors. There was no desk to speak of. But there was a toy chest, obviously empty, over in the corner.

"Originally, this was to be a baby's room, but if you don't have any babies to speak of…of course, something can be arranged," The realtor pleasantly supplied.

"No, no, this is fine…" Dean trailed off. Truth be told, he wasn't sure he was ready for all of this, this immediacy of their present and future circumstances smacking them in the face. But then he remembered Sam, cooing and gurgling contentedly as he fell asleep the night of the spell (Dean's mind conveniently left out the Sam was also at those very moments being unwillingly, and permanently, regressed to mental infancy) and his own resolution to have them both settle down. He wouldn't let this shake him, but rather propel him to a decision. Dean went back into the hallway.

Turning back from the bathroom door to look down towards the living room, Dean didn't get the relatable feeling of being in a funhouse, with a twisty hallway to navigate to the homestead. Rather, the design clicked with him. The lateral structure would be no problem if (_"When?" _His mind wondered) they came to live here.

He turned towards the realtor, already reaching for the pen in his back pocket.

"We'll take it."

**II**

It was another typical Friday night for the Winchesters. Well, typical for them now. On this exact same Friday night a year ago, Dean and Sam certainly wouldn't have been propping back to watch the game. And they certainly wouldn't have had a friend over. And Sam certainly wouldn't be wearing diapers, a onesie, and nursing a bottle. But this wasn't then; this was now. And this was how the Winchesters had fun most weekends. It was an arrangement, Dean had to admit, he liked.

"You want another beer?" Dean asked Jack, as he got up off the couch and headed towards the kitchen.

"No: I'm still working on the one you got me an hour ago," Jack's said, "but I think Sammy may need some more milk."

"Coming right up."

If there was anything wrong with the conversation that had just occurred – that Jack tossed around "Sammy," a very sacred nicknamed with access limited to only one person, so easily or that he was actually fine with Sammy – none of it registered with Dean. He was comfortable with his set-up; over the last three months, stuff like this was typical and free-flowing. Jack had slipped into an interesting role with Sam, simultaneously babysitter, protector, caregiver, and friend. He was that last one for Dean as well.

As Dean slipped a fresh bottle into the microwave to warm, he allowed himself a second or two to reflect on their situation:

The hustle & bustle as they moved into the new apartment, when Jack had appeared suddenly, in the clutch, and helped Dean balance both his younger brother and all the heavy lifting required.

Those first few days, when he had scurried about the town square, seemingly from dawn till dusk, looking for work. Finally, the local carpenter had taken pity on him. Now, months later, he was a half-decent apprentice woodworker.

The apparent minefield, both emotionally and financially, that needed to be worked through to manage both Dean's professional and home lives. How could he watch Sammy when he was working? How could his plan, so swift yet fragile to blossom, take root if he didn't have a steady income? The answer came suddenly. But it came.

His boss, Tom Jackson, would only need him in the morning, from roughly five to nine, to help load and organize wood from the lumber yard, and then in the mid-afternoon, from one to four, as a store clerk to take peoples' orders and to learn and work the trade on harmless smaller things (i.e. a birdhouse for grandpa). Happily, that left the late morning through the lunchtime for Dean to be home, well before Sam could get himself into trouble. And when Dean left, naptime always came calling for Sammy. The arrangement was pulled-off with hair-thin timing, but it seemed to be working 9 days out of 10.

And then there was, after the brothers had settled in from those first weeks, only a vast expanse of life staring back at Dean. He was here now, he had _arrived_, but what should he do with himself? Sure he had a job (and he was even pursuing, however casually, a few other "jobs" as well) and a home of sorts and a contented baby brother, but was he having fun? He was peaceful, but was he satisfied? On some level, he was – that was what this whole move was all about, remember – but on some level, he still desired to be sociable when the weekend rolled around.

That was where Jack came in.

It had started when, one afternoon as Dean's shift was on the verge of ending, Tom had asked him to stay a little longer: there were a few pieces of machinery he felt would be really useful for Dean's growing proficiency in the carpentry field. Dean had tried to refuse, but he had to 

admit that in two different ways, he couldn't. One, he was not going to bite the hand that fed him, especially as it was one of the few hands in town. And, two, he had grown to liked what he did for a living – becoming better at it, if it was to be his career, seemed more than appealing.

Still, there was Sam – sure to be waking soon. Then he remembered Jack, and then he remembered the number of the local supermarket (mostly because he had it tacked above his desk at his work, seeing as how he occasionally made runs up there for various items they always ran low on). He dialed the number; three rings, and then a voice.

"Customer Service: how may I help you today?"

"Can I speak to Jack Taylor please?" Dean asked.

"One moment…"

Canned music: he was being put on hold. Thirty seconds later:

"This is Jack Taylor speaking."

"Jack, it's Dean. Look, I have a big favor: do you think you could watch Sam for me tonight – my shift ran late with Mr. Jackson." Dean realized as he said this that Jack would surely be curious as to why a fully grown man, incontinent as may be at night, would need watching over like a baby.

"No, sure, I'm off here in about ten minutes."

"Great. It'll just be until about eight or nine. There's a spare key in a blank envelope in our mailbox, so you can just let yourself in. And the fridge should be fully stocked for both of you for dinner or whatever else you need if you or Sammy get hungry."

"Sounds perfect. Oh, but Dean?" Here it comes.

"Yeah?"

"Why am I 'watching' Sam exactly?" There was curiosity in his voice, but not a huge amount; Dean could work around this.

"I can't really explain. But once you get there, you'll understand most of it. What you don't, I'll fill you in on later tonight."

"Ok, sure. See you then."

"Thanks a lot, Jack." Dean's relief was evident.

"No problem, I'm always happy to help," Jack warmly responded, his affability and genial affection clear even over the phone. It was one of the things that had struck them so surprisingly when the Winchesters had first met Jack.

"Ok then, bye." Dean hung up the phone.

It was actually more around ten when he finally dragged himself through the door of his apartment. If he wasn't so tired from work, he'd have been worried about just what was going to greet him as he stepped through the door. Whatever it was, it was nothing like what he actually found.

The television was on in the living, but the volume was down almost to mute. Sam and Jack were both on the couch, Jack in his pajamas and Sam in a footed sleeper. Jack was stretched out vertically, his feet propped up on the coffee table while his head leaned back against the sofa, deeply asleep. Sam was also asleep, but he was arranged horizontally, his shaggy head in Jack's lap. The faint snores Dean could hear could have been coming from either of them, but he felt pretty sure Sam was the culprit.

It was, Dean thought guiltily, extraordinarily _cute_.

First thing first, he had to get Sam to bed. This was an easy task in comparison though to the one that would come after it: figuring out what to do with Jack?

_"I could always wake him up, probably drive him home…" _Dean thought as he carried Sammy in his arms toward his new room.

_"But really, what good would that do? He could just as easily sleep here tonight, get up tomorrow, head back to his place and then on into work," _He reasoned as he lay his sleeping brother into his crib, before walking back into the living room. He stood over Jack, who still was sleeping and now quite obviously snoring, for a minute or two. Finally, he made a decision.

"Come on buddy…" Dean said quietly as he eased Jack down into a horizontal position on the couch. The only response was a brief pause in Jack's snoring and a muffled sigh as he was tilted further and further at an angle, and then finally let down into the cushions to resume sleeping.

Dean cast about for a second for a blanket. He found one lying on a kitchen chair and then continued to lay it over Jack's body. 

"Sweet dreams."

He turned back toward the short hallway that would lead him to sleep as well.

**III**

That was the cause, and this was the effect; these occasional weekend nights, and the once-in-awhile week night as well, were savored by all parties involved. For Dean, it was a time to re-adjust himself to his new, quainter yet just as busy, life. For Jack, it was even more time to get to know two people who were quickly becoming like brothers to him. And for Sam…well…it was another warm night of diapers and formula and naps in his crib. The old Sam would have screamed if he could see himself now. 

Thankfully, he couldn't.

"Hey Dean, I forgot to mention: some guy at the store told me he saw this crazy huge bear when he was hiking last weekend," Jack called 

to the older Winchester, just another story to fill another peaceable Friday night.

"Really?" Dean's radar went off. He re-entered the living room, setting the bottle Sam would soon need on the table, and turned to Jack.

"Did he say what the bear was like?" He kept his tone perfectly jovial, albeit a tad curious, as he continued the anecdote.

"Not really – he was too busy ranting about how close to death he'd come, but he did say it had massive claws, and its fur was more blue than black."

"Wild."

"Tell me about it," Jack responded, turning back to the game on television.

Dean would definitely have to think about this. Though he'd promised himself that he'd continue his other line of work once he was settled with Sam, he hadn't exactly had the time. The last real gig he'd had was about two months ago, and even that was a small-time haunting. This, though, sounded real. 

He had a new side-project when he came home from lunch tomorrow.

"Earth to Dean: you there?" Jack asked.

"Oh, yeah, I'm back. Sorry about that, I was daydreaming on you."

"I think where I'm from we just call that sleeping," Jack said, laughing, as he gestured to the window – the sky was inky with darkness.

"As long as I don't miss the end of fourth quarter."

"Like I'd let that happen," Jack teased.

"You did last time, if I remember correctly," said Dean as he subconsciously prepared to begin another session of wrestling with his friend.

"Hey! That was payback for when you let _me _miss the game."

"But you just looked so peaceful…how could I wake the little boy for the man's game?" Dean retorted, his lips curving up a little more with each word.

"Yeah whatever old man, just you watch–" Jack never got to finish his sentence though, because at that moment Dean pounced on him, launching them both onto the floor.

The following minutes were interspersed with only two things: the laughter of the ensuing scuffle, and the observant cooing sounds Sam made as he watched them from around his bottle – his eyes oddly alight with interest and dull at the same time; his babyish instincts stirred by this new experience, but his now-empty mind still as vacant as it'd been since those weeks after their run-in with the witch.

Nearly fifteen minutes later, Dean helped Jack to his feet. Neither was the worse for wear, though Dean had a new hole in his jeans right below the knee and Jack's hair was a complete mess.

"I'll tell you what: when you inevitably fall asleep as the game winds down, I'll let you can stay over instead of kicking your scrawny ass to the curb – my way of apologizing for just kicking your butt," Dean ribbed.

"Like I need to stay here: you'll be asleep before I will," Jack tossed back.

An hour later, as the television was switched off it was Dean who ended up being right. And it was Dean who tucked a blanket around Jack, and snuck a pillow under his head.

"I give up one baby brother, just to find another," he admonished himself. But it wasn't an unhappy admonishment. No, never unhappy.

**IV**

_Breathe._

_Pant._

_Step._

_Breathe._

_Step._

_Step._

_Fumble._

_Pant._

_Step._

The apartment would have been oddly quiet for any other time of night, it was just ten o'clock on a Saturday after all, except when one considered the residents living there. It was a pair of them, and only one of them had enough grasp of their mental facilities to register making much of any noise, Dean noted wryly. No, even on a free-wheelin' party night like this, the Winchester boys kept mostly to themselves these days.

Except when one of them was hunting – which was what Dean had been doing. He had taken his lunch break that afternoon to hunt down the lead Jack had mentioned. It was fairly easy, luckily. Eventually Dean realized he'd hit on something he couldn't work out himself without Sam's researching skills, and that would be a problem, a big one. Of all the things Dean missed most sorely of his brother – and there were many, many things he missed – the researching skills were low on the list. But in times like these, when he realized the enormity of his task with only himself to count on…

_Sigh._

Dean stopped a moment in his room to take off his boots. He'd tried to take off as much mud as he could outside, but still it had followed him into the bedroom: yet another chore for the week.

He felt the adrenaline draining from his body, and the soreness in his muscles begin their pulsating once more. He really needed a shower.

On that note, he slipped into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Usually he preferred them lukewarm, but he decided to steal a page from Sam's (the _Old _Sam, he corrected himself) playbook and crank it up to scorching. It would only take about five minutes before it was ready for his arrival.

Dean headed back into his room, slipping off articles of clothing as he went, bundling them up to toss in his laundry basket before showering. First came his shirt, surprisingly unmarred from his hour-long spar with the bear-thing, then his socks, which held up as only the thick athletic brand could, and finally, his pants, stained with mud t and raggedy. Dean preferred them that way though – it was a vain indulgence, he thought it made him "edgy." Finally, standing only in a pair of white Hanes boxer-briefs, he tossed his soiled garments into the basket. He still had three minutes to kill. A thought struck.

He eased the door to Sam's room open silently. A slanted light fell across his sleeping brother's face, just as he hoped. He had had to leave almost three hours earlier, but he'd gotten Jack to come over and handle dinner and bedtime.

"What a lifesaver you turned out to be, kiddo," Dean said, thinking of Jack.

Dean walked closer, peering down at his little brother's face. Once again he was swept along on the ever surging tide of emotions he felt toward Sammy: love, protection, pride, adoration. It was precisely these that had aided in upsetting their previous mental states, but now they only fueled the continuing pleasant domesticity of their new arrangement.

He dwelt for a millisecond on what had been lost ever since they killed Naz, and for a millisecond more he was floored by the extent of it. An entire being, gone. It was staggering; and it had been Sam, too. How could he have let this happen? Then he looked down at what was left in his brother's place, and it all clicked. The millisecond passed and the new Dean & Sam were back in play. It would be tough to call, but if either of their old selves could see them now…well, things probably wouldn't be so smooth.

But things were smooth now, and for that Dean had to be eminently grateful. His plan had come off without much of a hitch, and now, months later, they were all set-up, with friends even (Dean surprised himself with the level of affection he had for Jack, when he considered him). There was one thing the old and new Deans would always agree on: anyway Sam could be happy must be taken. And if it wasn't quite the Sam from before, and if he had gotten that way by being forced and tricked down a path of particular misery, well, at least what was left of him seemed happy. Dean knew it was a weak rebuttal, but he'd been too absconded by the curse to muster anything above a pale level of melancholy for what was lost, in comparison to the love for what had been gained.

Suddenly, Sam stirred. His eyes were lit briefly with intelligence; maddeningly, it appeared to his older brother that for a second he had returned to his old self. Then Dean realized it was just the light across his face. Yet as he moved to block the radiance escaping from between the door and the wall, so Sam wouldn't feel too immediately disoriented and could thus go easier back into sleep, it seemed more real: Sam's eyes _were _alight with something. He opened his mouth and a giggle came out. 

Ok, so he wasn't his _old _self. But he was particularly alert.

"Sammy?"

"Daddy?" 

Dean had to stifle a laugh in response. Sam turned his head in slight confusion, and then sleep overcame him once more and he snuggled back into his crib. Dean was still shaking his head at the silliness of the response – especially even as a small part of him had hoped the real Sam would call back – as he went back to the door. He turned for a parting glance before he stepped into his shower.

Gazing down at his baby brother, who had been through so much and gone so far, he felt he had to say something back…and he could only say one thing.

"Maybe."

**The End**


End file.
